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THE 


Schoolmasters  Stories, 


FOR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS. 


EDWARD    EGGLESTON, 

AUTHOR   OF    "the    HOOSIER   SCHOOLMASTER,"    ETC. 


BOSTON : 
HENRY    L.     SHEPARD    &    CO., 

(Late  Shepard  &  Gili.) 

1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

HENRY  L.    SHEPARD  &  CO. 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


PREFACE. 


Some  years  ago  there  was  a  party  of  forty  or  fifty  boys  who 
met  at  my  house  once  a  week,  and  to  them  I  often  told  stories. 
They  sat  on  the  arms  of  my  chair,  hung  themselves  over  the 
back  of  it,  squatted  by  my  feet  on  the  floor,  and  leaned  on  one 
another's  shoulders.  I  noticed  that  they  were  particularly 
eager  for  stories  that  had  the  smell  of  the  frontier  about 
them.  I  believe  I  have  told  in  this  book  some  of  the  very 
stories  that  used  to  amuse  these  good  fellows,  who  got  a 
great  hold  on  my  heart  by  listening  to  my  stories  and  liking 
them.  Dear  boys  !  I  thought  of  dedicating  the  book  to  them, 
but  they  are  all  gone.  Not  dead  —  I  did  not  say  that  But  in 
five  or  six  years  every  rascal  of  them  has  shot  up  into  some- 
thing like  a  young  man.  Some  of  them  are  raising  little 
patches  of  faint-looking  beard  on  their  upper  lips,  and  some 
of  them  are  nearly  six  feet  high.  Think  of  dedicating  a 
story  book  to  sophomores,  and  store-clerks,  and  such  like  !  It's 
a  way  boys  have.  Just  when  you  think  you've  got  a  boy,  he 
turns  to  a  man.     Boys  and  tadpoles  are  uncertain  things. 

There  are  some  queer  little  improbable,  unbelievable,  half- 
fairy-story  sort  of  things  here,  which  I  have  often  given  in  small 
doses  to  girls.  They  have  generally  taken  them  as  kindly  as 
they  would  have  taken  sugar-plums  or  pickles. 

5 


6  Preface. 

Some  of  these  stories  have  morals  to  them,  for  when  one  first 
begins  to  write  one  does  not  know  any  better  than  to  put 
morals  to  stories.  You  may  skip  the  moral  if  you  want  to,  — 
when  you  eat  a  squirrel  you  are  not  obliged  to  eat  the  tail. 
Many  of  the  stories  have  no  morals  to  be  skipped,  and  in  some 
the  moral  is  so  twisted  into  the  story  that  you  can't  get  one 
without  the  other.  You'll  have  to  read  the  good  advice,  my 
young  friends,  or  do  without  the  story. 

Some  readers  may  now  and  then  recognize  a  familiar  face. 
Some  of  these  stories  have  appeared  during  six  or  seven  years 
past,  in  The  Little  Corporal^  Our  Young  Folks,  The  Schoolday 
Visitor y  The  Suytday  School  Scholar,  and  The  Youth'' s  Com- 
panion. 

"Mr.  Blake's  Walking  Stick"  appeared  in  a  little  book  by 
itself,  and  the  "Queer  Stories"  and  some  others  were  once 
before  in  book  covers.  But  both  of  these  were  burned  up,  — 
books,  stereotype  plates,  and  all,  in  the  Chicago  fire.  They 
were  very  melting  stories  at  that  time.  Perhaps  some  mis- 
chievous reader  may  say  to  me  as  one  minister  said  to  another 
whose  barrel  of  sermons  had  been  burned  with  his  house, 
"  They  gave  more  light  from  the  fire  than  they  ever  did  in  any 
other  way ! " 

But  a  long  preface  is  pretty  nearly  as  bad  as  a  moral.  So  I 
open  the  door,  take  off  my  hat,  and  bow. 

Brooklyn,  Oct.,  1874. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  STORIES. 

I.          POLLY   STRADER,   THE   FEMALE    TRAPPER.      ...  II 

IL        AN    INDIAN   FRIEND 24 

III.  A    SWIM   IN   THE   DARKNESS 35 

IV.  A  FAMINE  AND  A  FEAST 47 

V.  SIMPLE  SIMON 59 

VI.  kitty's  forty 77 

THE  CELLAR-DOOR  CLUB. 

L          THE  STORY  OF  A   FLUTTER- WHEEL 89 

IL        THE  wood-chopper's  CHILDREN 97 

IIL       THE  BOUND  BOY I04 

IV.  THE   PROFLIGATE  PRINCE HO 

V.  THE  YOUNG  SOAP-BOILER Il5 

VI.  THE  shoemaker's  SECRET 124 

7 


8  Contents. 

QUEER   STORIES. 

I.  THE   CHAIRS   IN   COUNCIL I35 

II.  WHAT  THE  TEA-KETTLE  SAID I43 

III.  CROOKED  JACK I48 

IV.  THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  OLD  WOMAN 1 54 

V.  WIDOW  WIGGINS'  WONDERFUL  CAT 1 62 

VL       MR.   BLAKE'S  WALKING  STICK I7I 

THE  CHICKEN  LITTLE  STORIES. 

L          SIMON  AND  THE  GARULY 223 

XL        LAZY  LARKIN   AND  THE  JOBLILIES 235 

IIL      THE  PICKANINNY 246 

IV.       THE  GREAT   PANJANDRUM   HIMSELF 256 

MODERN  FABLES. 

L          FLAT  TAIL,  THE   BEAVER 269 

IL        THE  mocking-bird's  SINGING-SCHOOL        .      .  .273 

in.       THE  BOB-O-LINK  AND  THE  OWL 278 


'0mu^f^ 


POLLY   STRADER,    THE    FEMALE  TRAPPER. 

AWAY  out  upon  the  frontier,  on  the  bank  of 
one  of  those  beautiful  lakes  that  abound  in 
Minnesota,  lived  Mr.  Henry  Strader.  He  had  emi- 
grated from  Pennsylvania  in  1856,  and  had  made  a 
"  claim  "  on  the  most  beautiful  quarter-section  of  land 
within  a  circuit  of  ten  miles.  You  know  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  "  pre-emption  laws,''  the  person  who  settles 
on  unoccupied  land,  and  observes  certain  formalities, 
has  the  right  to  purchase  that  land  from  the  Govern- 
ment at  any  time  before  it  is  brought  into  market,  at 
one  dollar  and  twenty-five  cents  an  acre.  But  if  he 
does  not  buy  it  before  the  day  of  sale,  it  is  sold  at 
auction  to  the  highest  bidder. 

Mr.  Strader  had  three  children,  Harry,  his  eldest, 
Polly,  about  whom  I  am  going  to  tell,  and  little  Jimmie. 
All  the  money  that  the  father  could  make  by  farming 
in  summer  and  trapping  in  winter  he  spent  in  improv- 


12  The  Schoolmaster's  Stones, 

ing  his  claim.  As  the  land  was  not  likely  to  be  adver- 
tised for  sale  for  some  years,  he  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  make  any  provision  for  buying  it  at  once.  But 
Mr.  Strader  was  taken  suddenly  ill  and  died,  and  the 
burden  of  paying  for  the  claim  and  supporting  the 
family  came  upon  Harry,  then  only  seventeen  years 
of  age.  Not  wholly  upon  Harry,  either,  for,  from  the 
time  her  father  died,  Polly,  who  was  just  fifteen,  re- 
solved to  share  every  burden  with  her  brother.  She 
was  stronger  than  many  boys  of  her  age,  and  had 
always  been  fond  of  out-door  life.  In  fact,  she  was 
what  you  would  call  a  tom-boy,  brimful  of  life,  as 
restless  and  energetic  as  she  could  well  be.  She  had 
already  learned  to  paddle  a  canoe,  and  as  the  prairie 
chickens  would  come  into  the  yard,  she  had  become 
an  adept  with  the  shot-gun.  The  neighbors  used  to 
say  that  she  was  too  wild,  that  she  never  would  be 
good  for  any  thing. 

But  within  a  week  after  her  father  died,  she  had 
taken  a  hoe  and  gone  into  the  field  by  the  side  of 
Harry.  All  through  the  hot  days  she  did  her  part; 
and  as  winter  drew  on  she  practised  with  the  rifle  un- 
til she  could  shoot  about  as  well  as  her  brother.  And 
through  the  long  cold  months  she  tied  on  her  snow- 
shoes  as  regularly  as  Harry  did  his,  and  by  dint  of 


Folly  Strader^  the  Female  Trapper,  13 

helping  her  brother,  and  taking  lessons  from  him,  she 
learned  all  the  craft  of  the  trapper.  She  knew  the 
habits  of  musk-rat,  mink  and  otter  as  well  as  any  man 
in  the  region.  Harry  used  to  make  her  face  grow  red, 
sometimes,  by  declaring  that  she  was  a  "glorious  girl." 

But  the  next  spring  came  the  commencement  of  the 
war.  I  can  not  stop  to  tell  you  of  all  the  discussions 
that  were  held  in  the  Straders'  cabin,  on  the  subject  of 
Harry's  enlistment.  They  ended  in  Polly's  telling  him 
to  go,  that  she  would  support  the  family,  and  that  the 
land  wouldn't  come  into  market  right  off,  any  way. 
And,  whether  right  or  wrong,  Harry  enlisted. 

That  summer  Polly  succeeded  in  cultivating  that 
portion  of  the  land  that  was  broken  and  fenced,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  get  a  tolerable  crop.  But  during  the 
summer  there  came  the  sad  news  that  Harry  was 
wounded,  and  must  lie  for  a  long  time  in  the  hospital, 
and  then,  perhaps,  be  discharged,  on  account  of  his 
disability  to  do  further  service.  To  add  to  their  dis- 
tress, came  the  startling  intelligence  that  the  land  was 
brought  into  market,  and  must  be  pre-empted  before 
the  first  of  January,  or  it  would  be  sold. 

There  was  a  merchant,  five  miles  away,  by  the  name 
of  Van  Dyke,  who  bought  furs  of  the  setders,  and  sold 
them  provisions.     An  utterly  mean  man,  there  was  no 


14  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

advantage  to  be  taken  that  Van  Dyke  did  not  take. 
He  was  delighted  to  hear  that  the  land  in  the  neigh- 
borhood was  to  be  sold,  for  he  was  perfectly  satisfied 
that  the  widow  Strader  could  not  raise  the  two  hun- 
dred dollars  necessary  to  purchase  her  land,  and  he 
chuckled  as  he  thought  of  the  prospect  of  buying  it 
at  the  Government  sale,  and  thus  getting  all  the  im- 
provements for  nothing.  Indeed,  it  was  shrewdly  sus- 
pected that,  as  Van  Dyke  had  some  influence  with  of- 
ficers of  the  land-office,  he  had  something  to  do  with 
the  bringing  of  the  land  into  the  market  at  so  early  a 
day ;  for,  as  he  was  a  money-lender  and  a  speculator, 
there  were  many  ways  in  which  a  land  sale  would  be 
to  his  advantage. 

Polly  applied  to  Mr.  Van  Dyke  for  a  loan  on  a 
mortgage  on  the  land,  but  was  refused.  Hoping 
against  hope,  she  went  to  work  to  raise  all  the  money 
she  could  very  early  in  the  fall.  Leaving  her  mother 
and  little  Jimmie  to  secure  the  crops,  she  commenced 
to  trap.  She  started  out  at  daylight  every  morning,  and 
was  a  picture  for  a  painter  as  she  pushed  off  her  canoe. 
Her  long  hair  lay  on  her  shoulders,  her  head  was 
covered  with  a  regular  trapper's  cap,  made  of  wolf 
skin  with  the  wolf's  tail  hanging  down  behind. 

She  had  been  pretty  successful,  but  at  the  prices 


Polly  Strader,  the  Female  Trapper,  15 

offered  by  Mr.  Van  Dyke  she  had  nothing  Hke  enough 
to  buy  the  land.  Polly  was  very  high-spirited,  and  she 
vowed  that  the  merchant  should  not  have  a  single  skin 
that  she  captured.  In  vain  he  assured  her  that  the 
price  he  o&red  her  was  the  highest  that  could  be 
paid.  "Mr.  Van  Dyke,"  she  used  to  say,  "you  have 
not  money  enough  to  buy  my  furs.  You  are  like  the 
Pharisees;  you  devour  widows^  houses."  It  did  not 
sound  very  well  to  hear  a  girl  talk  in  this  way,  but 
Polly's  education  was  a  rough  one. 

At  last  came  the  news  that  Harry  was  about  to  start 
for  home.  He  had  been  discharged,  and  was  scarcely 
able  to  walk ;  but  at  any  rate  it  was  a  comfort  to  know 
that  he  was  coming  home  again.  It  was  now  the 
middle  of  November,  but  the  sky  was  yet  clear,  and  the 
prairies,  seared  with  the  frost,  looked  like  fields  of  gold 
beneath  the  autumn  sun.  And  every  night  the  prairie 
fires  made  the  sky  glow  in  every  direction.  Polly  had 
made  a  careful  account  of  her  resources,  and  said  that 
at  least  she  had  enough  to  buy  the  forty  acres  on 
which  the  house  and  the  principal  part  of  their 
improvements  were.  That  was  one  consolation,  at  any 
rate.  They  would  not  be  without  a  home,  if  they  did 
have  to  lose  the  meadow  and  timber-land  that  they 
had  prized  so  highly. 


i6  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

One  morning,  as  she  was  running  bullets  and  filling 
up  her  powder-horn,  and  hoping  that  Harry  would 
come  to-day,  and  wondering  if  her  furs  wouldn't  bring 
more  than  Van  Dyke  offered,  if  she  could  only  get 
them  to  Mankato,  while  she  was  talking  thus,  Mr.  Van 
Dyke  came  in  and  handed  her  a  letter,  saying,  — 

"This  was  in  the  office  for  you,  and  I  thought  I 
would  bring  It  along  over,  as  I  was  coming.  Don't 
want  to  sell  your  furs  this  morning,  eh?" 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Van  Dyke,  for  bringing 
the  letter,  but  you  cannot  have  any  of  my  furs.'* 

"Well,  you  might  let  me  have  that  black  fox,  any 
how,  as  a  personal  favor.  I  want  to  send  it  to  my 
brother.  I've  taken  a  fancy  to  it.  It  ain't  worth  more 
than  five  dollars,  but  I'll  give  you  ten." 

Polly  had  captured  a  black  or  silver-gray  fox  a  few 
days  before,  the  only  one  she  had  ever  seen,  for  it  is 
very  rare  indeed  that  such  a  fox  is  taken  so  far  south. 
She  had  no  idea  of  its  value,  but  ten  dollars  seemed  to 
her  a  large  price,  and  she  was  at  first  incHned  to  yield ; 
but  remembering  that  she  was  dealing  with  a  scoundrel, 
ishe  said,  "  Mr.  Van  Dyke,  I  beheve  I  told  you  that 
you  couldn't  have  any  of  my  peltries." 

"Well,  Miss  Strader,  you'll  be  sorry  some  day  that 
}'0U  didn't  oblige  me,"  he  said,  as  he  left  the  door. 


Polly  Strader,  the  Female  Trapper,  17 

When  Polly  opened  the  letter,  all  her  hopes  were 
dashed.  It  was  from  Harry.  He  was  very  ill  at  St. 
Paul.  He  begged  Polly  to  come  for  him,  otherwise  he 
thought  he  should  die. 

"  Well,"  said  Polly,  "  if  we  must  give  up  all  hope  of 
buying  the  farm,  or  even  forty  acres,  I  suppose  we'll 
have  to.  It'll  take  a  good  part  of  what  I  have  to  get 
Harry  home,  and  it'll  take  more  than  a  week  to  go  and 
come,  and  New  Year's  isn't  far  off.  Every  day  is 
precious.  But  we  must  save  Harry's  life,  and  the  poor 
fellow  will  get  well  if  we  once  get  him  home." 

And  so,  without  regarding  her  mother's  warning 
that  there  was  a  storm  brewing,  she  started  out  in  her 
canoe  to  go  down  the  lake  to  get  a  team,  with  which 
to  go  for  Harry.  Her  own  was  an  ox  team,  and  to  go 
in  the  stage  was  costly,  and  besides,  Harry  couldn't 
stand  the  day  and  night  riding  in  the  stage,  for  the 
distance  was  a  hundred  and  forty  miles.  She  hired  a 
team  for  a  trip  to  St.  Paul.  She  could  not  get  it  until 
the  Monday  following,  and  so  she  wrote  a  letter  to 
Harry,  telling  him  that  she  was  coming,  and  then 
started  to  paddle  around  the  shore  and  look  at  her  traps. 
When  she  got  to  a  place  which  she  and  Harry  had 
called  Rocky  Harbor,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake, 
she   found  a  dead  deer,  partly  eaten  by  wolves,  and 


i8  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

knowing  that  the  wolves  would  return  after  dark,  she 
set  several  traps  for  them.  Then  she  hastened  back  to 
her  canoe,  for  it  was  now  late,  and  there  could  be  no 
doubt  but  that  the  November  storms,  with  which  the 
winter  almost  always  begins  in  that  climate,  were  now 
at  hand. 

But  before  she  could  set  foot  in  her  canoe  the 
storm  came,  and  in  an  instant  the  air  was  so  filled  with 
snow  that  an  object  twenty  feet  away  was  invisible. 
It  took  but  a  moment  for  Polly  to  appreciate  her  sit- 
uation. To  paddle  across  the  lake  in  such  a  storm, 
w^as  out  of  the  question.  The  wind  was  coming  up, 
and  it  would  be  alike  impossible  to  coast  around  the 
shore.  Besides,  it  was  a  great  distance,  and  ice  would 
begin  to  form  before  she  could  get  half-way.  There 
were  no  famiUes  living  on  that  side  of  the  lake.  Her 
only  course  was  to  stay  where  she  was.  Her  spirit 
sunk  for  a  moment,  but  she  dashed  away  the  tears  that 
came  up  from  a  desolate  heart,  and  set  about  making 
the  best  of  it.  She  found  a  large  log  lying  in  a  ravine. 
Dragging  her  canoe  from  the  water,  she  laid  it  upside 
down  parallel  with  the  log,  about  three  feet  away  from . 
it.  She  then  cut  brush  and  laid  across  them,  to  form 
a  roof.  Creeping  under  this  shelter,  she  was  soon 
buried  beneath  two  feet  of  snow,  and  so  felt  sure  of 


Polly  Strader,  the  Female  Trapper,  19 

not  freezing.     There  is  no  better  protection  from  cold 
than  the  snow. 

It  was  a  lonely  place.  She  could  hear  her  heart 
beat.  But  when  the  wolves  commenced  to  gather  for 
their  midnight  repast,  and  when  they  set  up  their  fright- 
ful howls,  she  could  feel  the  hair  rise  up  on  her  head. 
She  would  have  been  brave  enough  if  she  could  have 
fought  with  the  wolves,  but  to  lie  there  and  listen  to 
their  unearthly  yelling,  not  knowing  how  soon  the  hun- 
gry pack  would  find  her,  was  more  than  she  could 
endure.  And  then  she  thought  of  poor  Harry,  and  of 
the  land  sale,  and  she  wished  for  the  skins  of  the  wild 
beasts  that  were  so  near  her.  For,  though  the  wolf 
skin  is  of  little  or  no  value  for  the  ordinary  purposes 
to  which  furs  are  applied,  it  is  in  considerable  demand 
for  lap  robes.  And  remembering  that  she  was  on  the 
leeward  side  of  the  wolves,  she  dug  away  the  snow  at 
one  end  of  her  burrow  and  looked  out.  Then,  growing 
bolder,  she  crept  out  to  a  clump  of  little  bushes  near 
by,  through  which  she  could  plainly  see  them.  For 
by  this  time  it  had  ceased  snowing,  and  the  moon 
was  shining,  though  the  wind  still  blew.  She  levelled 
her  gun  at  them  two  or  three  times  before  she  could 
get  courage  enough  to  fire.  At  the  first  shot  she  killed 
one,  and  the  pack  scattered  a  little,  but  the  smell  of 


20  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

the  fresh  blood  of  the  dead  wolf  brought  them  back 
again.     Several  times  she  fired  with  like  success. 

But  one  of  the  wolves,  in  moving  round,  'caught 
sight  of  her.  When  a  wolf  sees  any  living  object,  he 
immediately  endeavors  to  get  to  the  leeward  of  it,  in 
order  to  tell  by  the  scent  what  it  is.  A  wolf  depends 
on  his  nose  in  such  matters,  and  not  at  all  upon  his  eyes. 
This  one,  when  he  caught  sight  of  Polly,  commenced 
to  jnake  a  circle  in  order  to  get  where  his  nose  would 
inform  him  what  kind  of  an  animal  she  was.  Crowd- 
ing the  ball  down  quickly,  she  fired  just  in  time  to 
keep  the  wolf  from  finding  her  out,  and  calling  the  rest 
of  the  pack  with  his  howl.  The  wolf  rolled  over  in 
the  snow. 

Another  one  came  near  running  right  on  her,  but 
she  fired  in  time  to  save  herself.  But  this  last  fright 
alarmed  her  so  that  she  did  not  dare  fire  again,  until 
she  had  climbed  a  tree.  From  this  point  she  kept  up 
a  fire  upon  them  till  daylight,  when  they  left.  As  the 
result  of  the  night's  work,  Polly  found  that  she  had 
killed  nineteen  wolves  and  frozen  one  of  her  fingers 
almost  off.  Two  of  the  wolves  had  been  torn  by  the 
others,  but  there  were  seventeen  tolerably  good  skins. 

Before  she  dared  undertake  to  skin  them,  she  found 
it  necessary  to  have  a  fire  to  keep  her  hands  from 


Polly  Strader^  the  Female  Trapper.  21 

freezing.  By  whittling  thin  bass-wood  shavings  from 
her  canoe  paddle,  and  taking  cotton  from  her  clothing, 
she  was  able  to  start  a  fire  by  striking  a  percussion  cap 
in  the  midst  of  a  bunch  of  cotton  with  a  little  powder 
scattered  through  it.  It  took  her  till  noon  to  take  the 
skins  from  the  wolves,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon the  severe  cold  had  frozen  the  lake  in  its  narrow- 
est part,  so  that  she  ventured  to  cross.  In  order  to 
take  her  wolf  skins  across,  she  was  obliged  to  make  a 
little  sledge  of  the  crotch  of  a  small  tree.  Of  course 
there  had  been  great  distress  at  home  on  account  of 
her  absence,  and  great  was  the  joy  at  her  return. 

A  day  or  two  later  she  put  her  furs  on  a  sled  and 
started  to  St.  Paul.  When  she  got  to  Mankato,  she  * 
took  a  load  of  wheat  for  St.  Paul,  getting  a  good  round 
price  for  hauling  it.  When  she  arrived  in  the  city,  her 
first  care  was  to  find  Harry  and  to  cheer  him  up,  which 
she  did  most  effectually.  He  said  her  merry  laugh 
was  better  than  all  the  tonics  in  the  drug  stores.  She 
told  Harry  that  if  she  could  get  a  load  back,  she 
thought  her  furs  would  be  sufficient  to  pay  for  forty 
acres,  and  the  other  one  hundred  and  twenty  they  would 
have  to  let  "old  Van  Dyke,"  as  she  called  him,  have. 

"And  so  you've  turned  teamster,  have  you,  htde 
woodchuck?  '*  said  Harry,  rising  himself  up  in  bed. 


22  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

"Any  thing  to  save  you  and  the  old  home,  Harry." 

That  day  she  sold  her  furs.  What  was  her  surprise 
to  find  that  the  rare  and  beautiful  silver-black  fox  was 
worth,  not  ten  dollars,  but  sixty-five.  For  the  average 
value  of  black  or  silver-gray  skins  is  fifty  dollars,  and 
hers  was  an  uncommonly  fine  one.  And  then,  too,  the 
ordinary  demand  for  minks  had  carried  them  up  to 
three  times  the  price  offered  by  Van  Dyke,  and  even 
her  musk-rats  were  worth  twice  what  he  had  offered, 
and  she  got  well  paid  for  her  wolf  skins.  And  to  this 
Harry's  back  pay,  that  he  had  just  received,  was 
added,  and  there  was  more  than  enough  to  enter  the 
whole  claim  ! 

When  Polly  got  home  she  did  not  tell  any  of  her 
neighbors  that  she  had  stopped  at  the  land  office  at  St. 
Peters,  on  her  way  back,  and  entered  the  claim.  And 
Van  Dyke,  who  did  not  know  that  she  had  taken  a 
load  both  ways,  nor  how  many  furs  she  had,  came  over 
to  see  Harry,  who  was  now  able  to  walk  about. 

"Mr.  Strader,"  said  he,  "I  suppose  you'll  be  able  to 
pre-empt  forty  acres  of  this,  and  I  mean  to  buy  the 
other  three  forties.  Your  sister  has  been  a  little  saucy, 
but  I  want  to  oblige  you,  and  if  you'll  let  me  buy  in 
this  forty  with  the  house  on,  I  don't  mind  paying  you 
a  little  something  to  start  you  on  a  new  claim.' ' 


Polly  Strader,  the  Female  Trapper,  23 

"  I  couldn't  make  such  an  arrangement,  sir,"  said 
Harry. 

"Why?''  said  Van  Dyke. 

*' Because  my  sister,  whom  you  tried  to  swindle, 
entered  the  whole  claim  on  her  way  back  from  St. 
Paul.     And  now,  sir,  there  is  the  door." 

And  the  crestfallen  "land-shark"  left. 


II. 

AN   INDIAN   FRIEND. 

A  GREAT  deal  has  been  written  of  Indian  friend- 
ship and  Indian  gratitude.  Now,  the  truth 
is,  there  is  not  much  of  either  in  the  Indian  char- 
acter. But  there  have  been  some  cases  in  which  In- 
dians have  shown  the  utmost  devotion  to  their  friends. 
An  instance  of  this  kind  was  the  preservation  of  Mr. 
Spencer's  life,  during  the  massacres,  by  Chaska,  his 
friend.  There  is  a  curious  and  superstitious  relation 
that  sometimes  exists  between  Indians,  in  which  case 
they  freely  venture  their  lives  for  each  other.  Mac- 
donald,  was  a  young  Scotchman,  who  had  grown  up 
almost  wholly  in  the  Sioux  country.  As  a  vogageur 
and  guide  he  had  distinguished  himself,  and  no  man 
could  cross  a  prairie  in  a  winter  storm  with  a  trai7i  de 
glice  (split  wood  sled)  better  than  he. 

Among  the  Indians  with  whom  he  had  formed  a 
friendship,  was  one  called  Chetonka^  the  "  big  horse," 


An  Indian  Friend.  25 

from  the  fact  that  he  rode  a  white  man's  horse  in- 
stead of  an  Indian  pony.  One  day  Chetonka  pro- 
posed to  Macdonald  that  they  should  become  each 
other's  Koda, 

"What  is  that?"  said  Macdonald. 

The  word  Koda^  in  the  Dakota  or  Sioux  lan- 
guage, means  "  God,"  and  the  young  voyageur  did 
not  understand  that  it  had  any  other  meaning. 

"Among  our  people,"  said  the  Indian,  "when  one 
man  is  another's  Koda,  they  become  brothers.  They 
cannot  marry  in  each  other's  families,  and  they  defend 
one  another." 

"Then,"  said  Macdonald,  "I  will  be  your  brother. 
When  you  come  to  my  lodge,  you  will  eat  with  me.'* 

"Ho!"  said  the  Indian.  This  is  their  universal 
sign  of  approbation. 

"And  when  I  am  in  your  village,  I  will  go  to  your 
lodge." 

"Ho!"  said  Chetonka.  "And,"  continued  the 
Indian,  "I  will  give  you  the  best  meat  I  can  find.  I 
will  kill  a  dog,  or  roast  a  musk-rat  for  you." 

Macdonald  did  not  much  like  this  bill  of  fare,  but  he 
did  not  say  any  thing  for  fear  of  offending  his  friend. 
And  from  that  time  they  were  good  friends.  When 
the  white  man  visited   the   Indian  village,   his   Koda 


26  The  Schoolmaster^ s  Stories. 

made  him  a  feast,  and  when  the  Indian  came  to  the 
white  man's  lodge,  the  latter  brought  out  the  best  his 
larder  afforded. 

The  voyageur,  tiring  of  his  wandering  life,  made  a 
claim  upon  the  banks  of  one  of  the  beautiful  streams 
that  ran  into  the  Minnesota  river,  near  its  source. 
Here,  in  a  grove  of  slender  popples,  he  built  his  cabin 
of  tamarack  logs,  from  which  he  hewed  the  bark  in 
such  a  way  as  to  leave  the  underbark  in  strips  upon  the 
log.  As  the  under  bark  is  reddish,  it  makes  baautiful 
strips  when  left  in  this  way.  Full  of  fancies,  he 
thought  his  modest  claim  might  one  day  grow  to  be  a 
town,  when  other  settlers  should  gather  around  him ; 
and  he  concluded,  if  this  should  happen,  he  would 
name  the  village  after  his  Indian  friend,  "  Chetonka." 

In  one  corner  of  the  modest  cabin  Macdonald  built 
a  book-shelf,  upon  which  he  arranged  his  small  library, 
consistmg  of  a  Testament,  an  old  "English  Reader,"  and 
a  copy  of  Burns'  Poems.  Thes<3  three  books  hardly 
needed  a  shelf,  but  the  idea  of  a  library  pleased  his 
fancy.  In  another  corner  he  had  a  bedstead,  made  of 
popple  poles.  In  the  other  end  of  the  cabin  was  a 
fireplace.  The  roof  was  made,  like  many  roofs  on  the 
frontier,  of  broad  strips  of  white  oak  bark.  The  house 
was  not  the  warmest  in  the  world,  but  he  thought  he 


An  Indian  Friend,  27 

should  be  able  to  keep  from  freezing.  For  though  he 
was  the  proprietor  of  the  future  city  of  Chetonka,  he 
was  still  quite  poor,  and  there  was,  as  yet,  no  inhabitants 
in  his  city  but  musk-rats  and  gophers.  One  day,  hav- 
ing wandered  off  rather  more  than  five  miles  from  his 
house,  in  search  of  game,  he  was  greatly  surprised  to 
see  an  Indian,  mounted  on  a  large  horse,  following  him. 
He  was  reheved,  however,  when  the  red  man  came  up, 
to  find  it  was  his  friend  Chetonka,  the  "Big  Horse." 

"Ho!"  said  the  white  man,  to  which  the  Indian 
answered  with  a  "Ho!"  They  shook  hands  and 
Macdonald  lit  his  pipe,  and,  taking  a  whiff  or  two, 
passed  it  to  the  Indian.  There  is  no  greater  evidence 
of  friendly  feeling  among  the  Indians,  than  smoking 
from  the  same  pipe. 

"And  what  brought  you  here,  my  friend?"  said  the 
white  man,  after  they  had  smoked  awhile  in  silence. 

"I  came,"  said  the  Sioux,  "to  let  the  'White  Head' 
know  that  there  was  danger." 

The  Indians  always  gives  a  man  a  name  that  corres- 
ponds with  something  in  his  appearance.  General 
Sibley,  for  instance,  is  called  by  them  "The  Long 
Trader,"  because  he  is  tall,  and  was  once  an  Indian 
trader.  Macdonald's  hair  was  flaxen,  and  hence  his 
Sioux  name,  which  signified  "White  Head." 


2  8  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

"Is  there  going  to  be  trouble  at  the  payment?" 
asked  the  voyageur. 

"  No ;  but  there  is  a  party  of  Cut-heads  from  the 
plains,  who  have  come  to  steal  horses,  and  I  fear 
they  will  take  yours." 

Chetonka  was  a  Sioux  of  the  Sisseton  tribe.  This 
tribe  were  annuity  Indians,  that  is,  they  had  sold  their 
lands,  and  were  in  receipt  of  an  annuity  from  the 
Government.  But  the  Cut-heads,  or  Yanktonnais, 
were  a  tribe  of  buHalo  hunters  from  the  plains,  who, 
though  they  belonged  to  the  Sioux  nation,  and  were 
nominally  at  peace  with  the  whites,  were  utterly  law- 
less. When  the  Scotchman  heard  that  a  party  of 
these  savages  were  after  his  horses,  he  felt  that  he 
had  reason  to  be  alarmed,  for  he  had  three  good 
ones  grazing  on  the  prairie  near  his  house. 

"I  must  go  back  and  take  care  of  them,  my 
friend,"  he  said,  as  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe,  and  gave  the  Indian  a  handful  of  tobacco  as  a 
present. 

"You  must  not  go  back.  White  Head.  The 
Yanktonnais  are  strong;  and  why  should  Black  Dog 
their  leader,  return  to  his  tribe  with  your  scalp  hang- 
ing at  his  belt?  He  is  even  now  on  his  way,  and 
would  perhaps  reach  your  horses  before  you  could." 


A7t  Indian  Friend.  -  29 

"Where  is  their  camp?"  said  the  white  man. 

Chetonka  told  him. 

"Then,"  said  Macdonald,  "I  shall  go  there  and 
hide,  and  when  the  horses  are  brought  in  to-night,  I 
shall  watch  my  chance  and  run  them  off." 

"  J  am  afraid  you  will  not  succeed,"  said  the  Ind- 
ian. 

"Why?" 

"The  Black  Dog  performed  the  Ham-day-pee 
before  he  left  his  village.  He  went  round  through 
the  village  for  three  days,  with  knives  stuck  through 
the  flesh  of  his  back,  to  which  the  head  of  a  buffalo 
was  attached  by  a  hair  rope,  and  which  he  drew  af- 
ter him.  Then  he  saw  a  vision ;  and  now  he  is  sure 
he  will  be  successful  in  stealing  your  horses." 

"But,"  said  Macdonald,  "I  don't  believe  in  Ham- 
day-pee." 

The  ceremony  of  Ham-day-pee,  or  "God-seek- 
ing," or  rather  "dream-seeking,"  is  performed  by  the 
tribes  of  western  Sioux,  when  they  wish  to  be  success- 
ful in  any  undertaking  of  importance,  whether  it  be 
of  hunting,  war,  or  horse-stealing.  They  have  vari- 
ous horrible  ways  of  torturing  themselves,  keeping 
their  minds  fixed  upon  the  object  they  desire  until 
they  see  a  vision.-     I  suppose  that  fasting  and  tor- 


30  The  Schoolmaster'' s  Stories. 

ture  for  days   together  would   bring  on   a  delirium 
that  would  enable  any  body  to  see  "visions." 

"The  Sissetons,"  said  the  Indian,  "do  not  practise 
the  Ham-day-pee  much ;  we  like  the  medicine  dance 
better.  But  if  Tunkan,  the  Stone  god,  has  given 
Black  Dog  a  vision,  I  fear  you  will  not  be  able  to 
get  your  horses  back.'^ 

"But,  my  friend,"  said  the  white  man,  "I  do  not 
observe  Woh-du-zay,  and  yet  I  kill  as  many  deer  as 
you  do." 

When  a  Sioux  kills  an  animal,  he  always  throws 
away  some  part,  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  God  of  the 
chase.  Some  give  the  heart,  others  the  liver,  etc. ; 
but  the  same  man  always  gives  the  same  part."^ 

Chetonka,  when  he  heard  the  skeptical  remark  of  his 
friend,  only  smiled  and  said :  "  It  is  our  custom ;  but 
the  white  man  has  no  God  but  Wakontonka,''  (the 
Great  Spirit) . 

But  there  was  no  time  to  parley.  The  Indian  did  not 
wish  to  be  known  as  having  given  information,  and  so 

*  The  writer  wishes  to  acknowledge  his  indebtedness  to  the 
fragment  of  a  manuscript  of  J.  W.  Lynd,  Esq.,  in  the  archives 
of  the  Minnesota  Historical  Society.  Mr.  Lynd  was  killed  the 
first  day  of  the  massacre,  a  martyr  to  his  love  of  Indian  re- 
search. His  manuscript  is  stained  with  his  own  blood.  A 
portion  of  it  is  published  in  the  "Collections  of  the  Minnesota 
Historical  Society,  for  the  year  1864." 


An  Indian  Friend, 


31 


mounted  his  horse,  and  taking  the  nearest  ravine,  to 
avoid  observation,  he  hastened  home  again. 

Macdonald  soon  traversed  the  ten  miles  between 
him  and  the  camp  of  the  Cut-heads ;  but  it  was  already- 
dark  when  he  reached  the  place.  It  was  near  a 
stream;  and  through  the  bush  along  its  margin  the 
voyageur  crept,  until  he  reached  a  place  near  the  Indian 
camp.  Here  he  lay  until  midnight,  when  Black  Dog 
and  his  party  came  home  with  all  three  of  the  Scotch- 
man's horses.  There  was  little  "Shaggy,'^  the  best 
French  pony  on  the  frontier,  and  "Molly,"  his  mate; 
and  there  was  "  Sin,"  a  large  horse,  who  was  so  called 
because  he  was  so  "mortal  ugly,"  as  Macdonald  said. 
The  frontierman  thought  he  would  rather  die  than  let 
the  thieving  Yanktonnais  have  his  dear  little  "Shaggy." 

For  two  hours  after  the  arrival  of  the  party,  the 
Indian  camp  was  in  an  uproar  of  barking  dogs  and 
hallooing :  but  at  two  o'clock  all  was  quiet.  Macdonald 
then  crept  from  his  hiding-place,  and  going  in  among 
the  horses,  cut  the  ropes  by  which  his  three  horses  were 
tied.  But  Shaggy  was  so  delighted  to  find  his  master 
near,  that  he  neighed.  This  roused  the  dogs,  and 
the  voyageur  found  that  he  must  leave  at  once  and 
in  haste.  He  mounted  Shaggy,  knowing  that  the  rest 
would  follow  him. 


32  The  Schoolmaster^ s  Stories, 

In  order  to  avoid  awakening  the  Indians,  he  took 
a  trail  that  led  up  the  stream,  crossing  above  the 
camp,  instead  of  taking  the  more  direct  one  through 
the  camp  to  the  crossing  below.  When  Macdonald 
had  crossed  the  stream,  he  was  obliged  to  ride  down 
on  the  other  side,  past  the  lower  ford,  to  get  into 
his  proper  trail.  Just  as  he  rode  up  the  farther 
bank  of  the  river,  he  could  see  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  then  rising,  that  Black  Dog  and  his  friends 
were  mounting  for  pursuit. 

It  was  now  a  fair  race  for  the  lower  ford,  with  the 
odds  against  the  white  man.  But  vShaggy  laid  him- 
self out  for  a  fine  run,  while  Molly  and  long-legged 
old  Sin  came  thundering  at  his  heels.  For  half  a 
mile  down  the  stream  the  race  continued, — half  a 
dozen  savages  on  one  side,  and  a  voyageur  riding 
for  life  on  the  other.  Glorious  little  Shaggy,  how  he 
flew !  But  there  were  ravines  and  swamps  on  Mac- 
donald's  side,  while  the  Indians  had  a  smooth  trail. 
Macdonald  saw  that  the  Cut-heads  would  reach  the 
ford  first,  and  so  he  drew  his  revolver  for  a  fight. 
But  just  as  the  savages  turned  to  descend  the  bank 
into  the  stream,  they  saw,  too  late,  a  tree  laid  across 
the  trail.  Their  horses  plunged  into  the  limbs,  and 
the  riders  were  hurled  forward  to  the  ground. 


An  Indian  Friend,  33 

"All!"  laughed  Macdonald,  as  he  rode  on,  "Che- 
tOFika  has  set  a  trap  for  the  thieves." 

The  Indian  had  cut  down  a  sapling  across  this  road, 
foreseeing  that  Macdonald  would  take  the  upper  traiL  ' 
and  his  pursuers  this  one. 

The  voyageur  did  not  stop  until  he  had  reached  a 
place  of  safety.  A  day  or  two  later  he  heard  that  the 
Black  Dog  and  his  Cut- heads  had  returned  to  the 
plains,  the  former  with  a  broken  arm.  He  had  sus- 
pected Chetonka  of  a  part  in  the  affair,  and  had  stolen 
his  large  horse  in  revenge,  and  to  compensate  him  for 
the  loss  of  his  own  pony,  who  had  extricated  himself 
from  the  tree-top  and  followed  Macdonald' s  horses 
for  some  distance,  and  then  had  wandered  off  upon 
the  prairie.  But  Chetonka's  horse  was  worth  almost 
nothing  for  prairie  life,  so  that  he  had  not  made 
much. 

Macdonald  had  determined  to  give  his  friend  old 
"Sin,"  to  repair  his  loss ;  but  on  returning  to  his  house, 
he  found  Black  Dog's  pony  browsing  in  the  marsh  be- 
low. Capturing  him,  he  rode  over  to  Chetoaka's 
lodge,  and  gave  him  to  his  faithful  friend,  adding  two 
blankets  and  a  good  stock  of  ammunition,  as  a  token 
of  his  appreciation  of  his  Koda's  friendship. 

The  village  of  "Chetonka"  has  not  yet  become  a 


34 


The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 


great  city.  In  fact,  it  contains  only  one  house,  of 
striped  tamarack  logs,  and  its  public  library  has  but 
three  volumes  in  it. 


III. 

A   SWIM    IN    THE   DARKNESS. 

HANS  PEPPENHEIMER,  the  German  trapper, 
was  a  brave  and  honest-hearted  man,  who  had 
built  a  cabin  on  a  considerable  stream  in  one  of  the  new 
counties  of  Iowa.  He  had  two  bright  girls,  Wilhelmina 
and  Katrina,  who  helped  about  home,  and  a  boy  of 
twelve,  named  Frederick.  The  latrer  was  a  brave,  manly 
little  chap,  and  very  fond  of  accompanying  his  father 
on  his  trapping  expeditions.  One  morning  in  the 
early  part  of  November,  Hans  Peppenheimer  took 
down  his  rifle  and  examined  it  carefully.  Carl,  the  old 
dog,  who  was  lying  on  the  hearth  with  one  eye  shut, 
understood  this  movement,  and  got  to  his  feet  at  once, 
with  a  whine  of  impatience  and  joy.  Frederick,  who 
lay  dozing  in  the  trundle  bed,  understood  it  as  well  as 
Carl,  and   tumbled  out  at  once,  scratching   his   head 

and  rubbing  his  eyes  to  rouse  himself  up. 

35 


36  Queer  Stories. 

"  Hurrah  !  '^  said  he,  as  he  caressed  Carl :  "  there's 
fun  ahead,  old  fellow.  Do  you  want  to  start  up  a 
deer,  to-day?"  The  dog  wagged  his  tail  and  danced 
round  in  a  way  that  showed  he  understood  perfectly 
all  that  was  said. 

And  so,  while  Wilhelmina  broiled  a  piece  of 
smoked  venison  and  fried  some  potatoes  for  break- 
fast, Fred  employed  himself  in  making  bullets. 
After  breakfast,  the  trapper  took  his  rifle,  and  Fred 
put  the  game-bag  over  his  shoulder  and  stuck  the 
long  hunting-knife  in  his  belt.  The  girls  thought 
he  was  too  young  to  carry  so  sharp  an  instrument, 
but  Fred  only  said,  "Pshaw!  girls  always  are  so 
afraid ! "  Carl  had  quit  his  play,  and  was  saving  his 
strength  for  work.  With  head  and  tail  up  he  started 
off  with  the  utmost  dignity,  keeping  eyes  and  nose 
out  in  all  directions  for  game. 

By  noon  they  had  visited  several  traps,  and  Mr. 
Peppenheimer  had  killed  half  a  dozen  pigeons. 
Hans  built  a  fire  and  roasted  three  of  these  for  din- 
ner, while  Carl  made  his  meal  off  the  body  of  a 
musk-rat  whose  skin  Fred  had  just  taken  off.  While 
they  were  eating  the  pigeons,  wdth  some  bread  that 
Fred  had  brought,  they  noticed  the  old  dog  leave  his 
dinner  and  commence  to  run  up  and  down  the  bank 
of  the  river,  at  a  furious  pace. 


A  Swim  in  the  Darkness,  37 

"What's  up,  old  fellow?"  said  Fred.  "What  is 
it,  Carl?" 

The  dog  gave  a  whining  bark,  and  by  this  time 
Mr.  Peppenheimer  had  caught  sight  of  two  deer  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river. 

"  Fred,"  said  he,  "  I  must  have  one  of  those.  You 
have  travelled  five  miles  already,  and  you  must  stay 
here  while  I  follow  them.  I  will  come  back  this 
way.  See  !  they  have  gone  down  the  river.  I  will 
go  down  to  the  rapids  and  wade  across.  It  looks 
lowering,  and  if  it  should  rain  you  must  find  a 
hollow  tree." 

Saying  this,  the  trapper  started  eagerly  down  the 
stream,  leaving  Carl  to  keep' Fred  company.  Cross- 
ing the  river  at  the  rapids,  he  started  after  the  deer 
and  soon  caught  sight  of  them  on  a  neighboring  hill. 
But  he  followed  them  three  or  four  miles  before  he 
got  a  shot,  and  then  he  only  succeeded  in  wounding 
one  of  them,  and  he  was  obliged  to  go  a  mile  further 
before  he  brought  it  down.  By  this  time  the  storm 
had  come  on,  and  the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents. 

It  was  nearly  night  before  Hans  turned  his  steps 
homeward.  The  rain  was  frightful,  and  the  trapper 
travelled  fast,  though  burdened  by  a  saddle  of  veni- 
son.    He   w^as  becoming  uneasy,  for  he  knew  that 


38  Queer  Stories. 

the  river  would  rise  rapidly.  Streams  always  rise 
fast  near  their  heads.  When  Hans  came  in  sight  of 
the  river,  just  at  dark,  his  worst  fears  were  realized. 
It  was  a  wild,  mad  torrent,  full  to  the  very  brim. 

What  should  he  do  ?  On  the  other  side  was  poor 
Fred,  exposed  to  the  pitiless  storm.  There  were 
wolves  in  the  forest,  and  what  if  Fred  should  fall  a 
prey  to  them.^  Even  if  he  did  not,  the  thought  of 
his  staying  out  there  all  night  was  not  to  be  enter- 
tained. Hans  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  cross 
the  river  at  all  hazards. 

He  first  hallooed  for  Fred,  but  the  rush  of  the 
waters  and  the  incessant  roar  of  the  rain  drowned 
his  voice.  Then  he  stopped  to  think.  A  mile  above, 
he  had  noticed  an  old  canoe  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river.  The  canoe  had  been  abandoned  by  some- 
body, and  had  drifted  against  the  top  of  a  fallen 
tree.  That  canoe  gave  him  some  hope.  He  started 
up  the  river  bank,  pushing  back  the  underbrush  and 
wild  artichokes,  and  fighting  the  mosquitoes.  Every 
moment  increased  his  distress  on  account  of  his 
boy. 

At  last  he  came  opposite  where  the  canoe  lay,  and 
by  a  friendly  glimmer  of  lightning  he  saw  that  it  was 
still  there.     The  current  was  so  stron^:  that  he  knew 


A  Swim  in  the  Darkness,  39 

it  would  not  do  to  try  to  swim  there,  —  he  would  be 
carried  down  the  stream  by  the  torrent,  and  come 
out  far  below  the  canoe.  So  he  ascended  the  river 
bank  nearly  half  a  mile  further,  and  then  took  off 
his  clothes  for  a  swim. 

It  was  not  very  far  across,  and  Hans  was  a  tolera- 
ble swimmer.  But  did  you  never  notice  that  the 
best  swimmers  are  often  drowned  in  time  of  danger? 
The  reason  for  this  is  that,  they  lose  their  presence 
of  mind,  and  make  just  the  same  mistake  that  young 
swimmers  make.  They  swim  too  high.  They  think 
they  must  keep  their  shoulders  out  of  water.  Of 
course  the  effort  to  keep  so  much  weight  above  the 
water  will  soon  exhaust  the  strongest  swimmer. 

Presence  of  mind  is  every  thing  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. That  is  very  easy  to  say,  but  few  peo- 
ple know  how  to  keep  their  presence  of  mind. 
There  is,  however,  one  excellent  rule.  Think  before- 
hand just  what  mistakes  you  are  likely  to  make,  and 
be  on  your  guard.  Hans  said  to  himself:  "Now, 
my  life,  and  perhaps  the  life  of  Fred,  depend  on  my 
swimming  to-night.  I  must  not  fight  this  current,  or 
I  will  soon  give  out.  I  must  not  let  myself  get  ex- 
cited and  swim  too  high." 

So  saying,  Peppenheimer  crept  out  on  a  log,  and 


40  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

slid  off  into  the  cold  water,  going  entirely  under  at 
the  first  dash.  When  he  came  up  the  current  was 
sweeping  him  madly  down,  and  his  first  impulse  was 
to  strike  out  excitedly  against  it.  But  he  said  to 
himself,  "  Swim  straight  across,  and  swim  low  !  "  and 
so,  with  a  long,  steady  stroke,  he  struck  out  against 
the  cold  waters,  taking  care  to  keep  his  head  just 
above  the  surface.  There  is  nothing  about  the  swim- 
mer's body  that  need  be  above  the  water,  except 
nose  and  eyes. 

But  the  first  dozen  or  two  of  strokes  did  not  seem 
to  make  any  headway  at  all.  The  current  set  strong- 
ly from  the  other  side  at  that  point,  and  Hans  soon 
found  that  he  was  nearly  exhausted.  He  had  been 
swimming  too  fast,  and  the  cold  was  chilling  him. 
But  he  said  to  himself,  "  Swim  low,  swim  slowly,  and 
swim  straight  across." 

At  last  the  sturdy  strokes  of  the  hardy  and  reso- 
lute German  frontierman  began  to  tell,  and  Peppenhei- 
mer  found  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  wild  stream, 
fighting  the  rushing  waters  in  the  dark.  After  a 
while  his  strength  began  to  fail,  more  from  the 
benumbing  effect  of  cold  than  from  exhaustion.  But 
rousing  him  self,  and  giving  a  dozen  vigorous  strokes, 
he  put  himself  under  shelter  of  a  point  of  land  where 


A  Swim  in  the  Darkness,  41 

there  was  little  current,  and  he  soon  reached  a  shoal 
place  where  the  water  ran  over  a  sand-bank.  He  was 
still  some  distance  above  the  canoe,  and  started  to 
wade  down  the  stream.  Several  times  his  feet  caught 
in  brush  half-buried  at  the  bottom,  when  the  swift 
current  sent  him  headlong  into  the  water. 

Before  he  reached  the  canoe,  the  water  became  so 
swift  that  he  had  to  swim  again.  Down  the  stream  he 
went  at  a  great  speed,  until  he  came  to  the  canoe, 
which  was  lying  against  a  limb  of  a  tree.  When  he 
reached  it,  the  trapper  threw  up  his  hands  and  caught 
the  ^Ag<^  of  it,  and  then  endeavored  to  set  his  feet  on 
the  bottom.  But  there  was  no  bottom  there.  His 
feet  were  carried  under  by  the  current,  and  he  found 
himself  with  his  head  sticking  up  on  one  side  of  the 
canoe,  and  his  feet  out  of  water  on  the  other.  It  took 
considerable  effort  for  him  to  get  back  above  the  canoe. 

When  he  had  climbed  into  it,  he  found  that  the 
heart  had  rotted  out  at  each  end.  It  was  that  sort 
of  a  canoe  that  is  called  in  the  West  a  "  dug-out,''  that 
is,  it  was  made  out  of  a  log  of  wood;  and  the  heart  of  the 
wood  rotting,  or  having  been  worm-eaten,  had  left  a 
large  opening  at  either  end.  Of  course  it  was  neces- 
sary for  Hans  to  paddle  back  for  his  clothes;  but  the 
canoe  was  full  of  water  before  he  got  ready  to  start. 


42 


The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 


So  taking  it  out  on  the  bank,  he  emptied  the  water 
out  and.proceeded  to  stop  the  holes. 

How  did  he  do  it  ?  Why,  he  broke  off  a  lot  of  wil- 
low twigs  and  drew  them  through  the  holes  until  they 
were  pretty  well  stopped.  Then  he  took  the  soft 
clay  from  the  bank  and  daubed  it  all  over  the  willows. 
He  was  all  this  time  in  an  agony  about  Fred,  but 
it  was  out  of  the  question  to  attempt  to  reach  him 
through  the  brush  without  the  protection  of  clothes. 
So  he  took  a  piece  of  the  brushwood  for  a  paddle, 
and  in  half  an  hour  he  had  managed,  by  pulling  along 
by  the  overhanging  willows,  to  ascend  the  stream  to 
a  point  opposite  the  place  where  he  had  left  his  clothes. 
Then  he  struck  out  and  paddled  across. 

But  by  this  time  the  water  had  worked  its  way 
through  the  clay  daubing,  and  the  canoe  was  full. 
It  had  to  be  drawn  out  and  emptied  again,  and  then 
daubed  once  more.  Taking  on  board  his  venison 
and  his  gun,  after  having  dressed,  he  started  back 
across  the  river.  He  paddled  out  boldly  into  the 
mad  current,  and  floated  down.  When  he  reached 
the  place  where  he  left  Fred  at  noon,  he  landed  and 
hallooed;  but  he  got  no  answer. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  moon  was  shining 
dimly  through  the  fog.     Hans  found  the  ashes  of  the 


A  Swim  in  the  Darkness.  43 

fire  by  which  they  had  roasted  the  pigeons  at  noon. 
Here  he  stopped  and  called.  But  he  got  no  answer 
but  the  husky  and  smothered  cry  of  an  owl  that  sat  in 
the  top  of  a  dead  tree.  There  is  nothing  more  start- 
*ling  to  a  man  alone  in  the  woods,  than  the  wretched 
Hoo-hoo-hoo-00-ah-ah  of  the  owl.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, this  sound  made  Peppenheimer's  hair 
stand  on  end. 

What  had  become  of  Fred  ?  When  he  saw  the 
storm  coming,  he  had  betaken  him  to  a  hollow 
tree.  Here  he  lay  in  safety  and  comfort,  until  about 
the  time  that  Hans  left  the  rapids  and  went  up  the 
stream  for  the  canoe.  Then  he  began  to  think  of 
the  rising  water,  and  afraid  that  his  father  would  at- 
tempt to  cross,  he  determined  to  go  to  the  ford  and 
build  a  fire,  that  he  might  give  his  father  assurance 
of  his  safety  and  light  upon  the  water,  if  he  should 
attempt  to  cross. 

But  when  he  started  out  into  the  darkness  and 
rain,  he  turned  back  in  fright,  and  crept  into  the  tree 
again.  He  thought  of  wolves,  the  possibility  of  wak- 
ing up  a  bear,  the  cold  drenching  rain,  and  the  hor- 
rible loneliness.  But  when  he  lay  down  again,  and 
thought  of  the  chances  of  his  father's  being  drowned 
in  the  wild  torrent,  he  determined  to  face  all,  and  go 
to  the  ford. 


44  The  Schoolmaster  s  Stories, 

After  a  tedious  time  crawling  through  the  brush, 
he  reached  the  rapids.  But  to  build  a  fire  in  such  a 
rain  was  no  easy  task.  After  having  used  up  all  his 
matches  but  one,  he  succeeded  in  getting  some 
whittlings  from  the  inside  of  a  piece  of  seasoned 
wood,  and  by  great  perseverance  and  careful  man- 
agement, he  at  last  m^de  a  fire.  Then  he  heaped 
on  sticks  of  all  kinds  until  he  succeeded  in  getting  a 
roaring  bonfire.  But  in  one  of  his  excursions  after 
wood  he  stumbled  on  a  bear,  to  his  great  horror. 
Carl  barked  lustily  at  it,  but  poor  Fred  ran  back  to 
his  fire  and  climbed  a  tree.  Climbing  a  tree  may 
save  one  from  a  wolf,  but  Fred  forgot  that  the  bear 
was  a  much  better  climber  than  he  was.  But  there 
he  sat  in  the  forks  of  the  tree,  shivering  with  cold, 
wet  and  fear. 

After  a  while  Carl  came  back,  and  tracking  Fred  to 
the  tree,  looked  up  and  barked.  Then  he  lay  down 
by  the  fire. 

Fred  began  to  get  tired,  and  was  afraid  he  might 
fall  asleep  and  lose  his  hold.  But  he  struggled 
against  it.  He  dare  not  stay  on  the  ground  for  fear 
of  wolves  and  bears.  But  once  he  found  himself 
falling  into  a  doze.  Thoroughly  alarmed,  he  took 
off  the  "  comfort "  that  his  mother  had  tied  about  his 


A  Swim  m  the  Darkness.  45 

neck,  and  wrapped  around  his  waist,  and  then  lied 
it  around  the  tree. 

He  was  just  falling  into  a  doze,  when  Carl 
gave  a  low  bark  and  pricked  up  his  ears.  Fred 
looked  at  him  a  moment.  Then  the  dog  shot  away 
into  the  bushes.  Fred  watched  him  a  few  minutes, 
but  Carl  neither  barked  nor  came  back.  Fred  felt 
badly  enough,  now  that  he  was  left  all  alone,  and  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  I'm  afraid  he  shed  a  few 
tears.  But  he  prayed  to  God  to  bring  his  father 
back,  and  bring  him  safe  home  again,  and  then  he 
felt'better. 

Carl  had  been  gone  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Fred  had  concluded  that  the  dog  had  gone  home  ] 
he  was  just  going  o£E  into  another  doze  with  the  feel- 
ing that  he  was  utterly  deserted ;  he  thought  of  his 
mother  and  sisters,  and  — 

"Fred!  Fred!" 

He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  saw  Carl  come  bounding 
up  to  the  tree  in  which  he  was,  barking  loudly. 

"  Fred  !  Fred  !  "  It  was  his  father's  voice.  Fred 
slid  down  to  the  ground,  and  was  in  his  father's 
arms.  Carl  had  heard  the  father  calling  Fred,  and 
had  gone  to  meet  him,  and  had  guided  him  to  where 
Fred  was. 


46 


The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 


It  was  nearly  daylight  when  the  musK-rat  skins  and 
the  saddle  of  venison  were  laid  down  at  Hans  Pep- 
penheimer's  cabin. 


IV. 

A  FAMINE  AND  A  FEAST. 

THAT  hardy  and  adventurous  class  of  men  who 
were  formerly  known  as  courriers  des  bois,  "  for- 
est scouts,"  and  who  are  to-day  called  voyagmrs 
"  travellers,"  have  always  been  both  eyes  and  hands  for 
the  North  American  fur  trade.  No  toil  has  been  too 
arduous  and  no  enterprise  too  perilous  for  them.  Of 
this  class  was  Pierre  Beaubien,  who,  like  most  of  his 
companions,  married  an  Indian  woman.  When  his 
son  Baptiste  —  or,  as  the  voyageurs  pronounce  it, 
"Battiece"— was  but  ten  years  of  age,  Pierre  was  killed 
by  the  Sioux.  In  consequence  of  this  misfortune, 
the  young  half-breed  was  left  to  grow  up  among  his 
mother's  people,  the  Red  Lake  Chippewas,  becoming, 
of  course,  a  savage  in  all  his  tastes  and  habits.  Whilst 
other  half-bloods  dressed  more  like  white  men  than 

47 


48  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

Indians,  and  followed  the  pursuits  of  their  fathers, 
Baptiste  preferred  to  fish  and  hunt  in  blanket  and 
leggings.  There  was,  however,  one  thing  in  which 
he  differed  from  his  savage  relatives.  He  clung  to 
his  crucifix,  which  he  wore  as  an  amulet  to  protect  him 
from  evil,  and  he  cherished  the  recollection  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  baptized  a  Christian  by  the 
Jesuit  missionaries  at  La  Pointe.  And  though  the 
crucifix  was  about  all  the  Christianity  he  possessed, 
yet  the  firmness  with  which  he  clung  to  the  name  was 
in  exact  proportion  to  his  ignorance  of  its  meaning. 

As  he  grew  up  he  soon  penetrated  the  shallow  im- 
positions of  the  medicine-men;  and  believing  his 
crucifix  and  sign  of  the  cross  to  be  sufficient  to  pro- 
tect him  from  all  evil  jeebi,  or  spirits,  as  well  as  from 
the  incantations  of  the  jugglers,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  expose  the  system  of  humbuggery  by  which  the 
latter  used  the  superstitious  credulity  of  the  Indians 
to  their  own  advantage.  By  this  course  he  soon  in- 
curred the  hostility  of  the  medicine-men,  especially 
of  the  noted  juggler  of  his  band,  whose  name  was 
Pembeenah,  "The  Cranberry."  This  old  imposter, 
whose  hideous  and  mummy-like  face  and  shrivelled 
form  made  him  look  like  the  dried  specimens  in  a 
museum  of  natural  history,  felt  so  great  an  animosity 


A  Famine  and  a  Feast,  49 

to  Baptiste  that  he  attempted  his  destruction  by  hav- 
ing him  assassinated  at  night.  The  assault  was  not 
successful, though  Beaubien  was  so  badly  wounded 
that  it  is  doubtful  if  he  could  have  recovered  had  it 
pot  been  for  the  attention  and  kindness  of  the  family 
of  an  American  missionary  who  had  recently  settled 
among  the  Indians. 

Baptiste,  notwithstanding  his  savage  life,  had  the 
impressible  heart  of  a  Frenchman  in  his  bosom,  and 
so  much  was  he  touched  by  the  kindness  he  had  re- 
ceived, that  he  was  almost  persuaded  to  abandon  his 
barbarous  mode  of  life ;  but  when,  after  a  month  or 
two  of  illness,  he  felt  again  the  warm  blood  of  health 
coursing  in  his  veins,  the  force  of  habit  was  too  strong 
for  his  resolution,  and  there  came  back  the  old  pas- 
sion for  a  life  of  savage  freedom.  And  so,  bidding 
his  benefactors  a  grateful  adieu,  in  which  French, 
English,  and  Chippewa  were  strangely  blended,  he 
returned  to  the  Indian  village. 

Though  the  old  medicine-man  did  not  dare  to  at- 
tempt violence  again,  he  had  not  abated  one  jot  of 
his  hatred  of  Baptiste;  and  to  this  he  now  added 
a  like  hostility  to  the  missionaries,  who  had  cared  for 
his  enemy,  and  whose  influence  with  the  tribe  was  all 
exercised  against  the  superstitions  upon  which  he  de- 
pended for  his  authority. 


50  •  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

But  Pembeenah  had  other  reasons  for  opposition 
to  the  mission  families.  One  McCormick,  an  unli- 
censed trader,  had  found  that  the  missionaries  were 
obstacles  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  schemes  for 
plundering  the  savages,  and  had  bribed  the  juggler 
to  secure  their  removal  by  having  them  robbed  of 
all  they  had. 

In  order  to  accomplish  this  purpose,  Pembeenah 
attributed  every  calamity  that  befell  the  tribe  to  the 
hatred  that  the  Great  Spirit  had  to  the  missionaries. 
Nor  was  he  in  want  of  calamities  for  texts.  It  was 
an  unusually  hard  winter  for  the  Indians.  They  are 
accustomed  to  live,  during  the  cold  season,  princi- 
pally on  fish.  These  they  catch  by  cutting  a  hole 
through  the  ice,  which  is  generally  from  three  to  six 
feet  thick.  To  this  hole  the  fish  come  for  air,  when 
they  are  speared  by  an  Indian  who  is  watching  for 
them.  But  the  extraordinary  thickness  of  the  ice 
during  this  winter  deprived  them  almost  wholly  of 
supplies  from  this  source,  while  the  extreme  cold  and 
other  causes  rendered  the  chase  of  little  avail.  The 
average  temperature  of  the  Chippewa  country  is  that 
of  Iceland,  the  winters  being  much  colder  and  the 
summers  much  warmer  than  those  of  that  island. 

Pembeenah  belonged  to  the  Crane  totem.     It  is 


A  Fa7nine  and  a  Feast. 


51 


certainly  a  remarkable  fact,  if  true,  as  stated  by  an 
intelligent  and  educated  half-breed,  that  most  of  the 
families  of  the  Crane  totem  have  high  and  somewhat 
bald  foreheads,  and  are  remarkable  for  their  clear, 
resonant  tone  of  voice.  It  is  said  that  most  of  the 
orators  of  the  Chippewa  nation  are  of  the  Crane  to- 
tem. However  this  may  be,  it  is  certain  that  Pem- 
beenah,  being  both  orator  and  medicine-man,  pos- 
sessed much  more  influence  than  the  chief,  who,  in- 
deed, has  no  authority  except  in  war.  Nor  did  the 
juggler  fail  to  exercise  the  oratory  for  which  the 
Cranes  are  so  remarkable,  in  showing  the  Indians 
how  the  famine  was  sent  upon  them  as  a  punishment 
for  allowing  the  missionaries  to  remain.  He  also 
pointed  out  what  was  a  much  more  effectual  argu- 
ment, the  fact  that  the  missionaries  had  flour,  that 
they  had  two  cows  whose  meat  was  good,  and  that 
there  were  blankets  in  their  houses. 

But  at  every  step  the  old  juggler  was  confronted 
by  Baptiste,  who  was  also  a  forcible  speaker,  and 
quite  an  influential  man,  being  a  member  of  the  aris- 
tocratic totem  of  the  Loon.  Baptiste  was  the  more 
in  earnest,  since  he  knew  that  a  pillage  could  hardly 
take  place  without  a  massacre,  and  that  even  to  turn 
the  mission  families  out  of  their  houses  in  the  depth 


52  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

of  such  a  winter  would  be  to  insure  their  death.  He 
showed  the  Indians  how  useless  the  provisions  of  the 
white  men  would  be  to  them.  "How  long  wdll  they 
last  you  ? "  he  said.  "  Will  you  be  any  better  off  when 
the  taste  of  the  missionaries'  cows  has  gone  out  of 
your  mouth?"  And  then  he  depicted  the  certain 
punishment  which  the  government  would  inflict  upon 
them.  And  then  he  laughed  at  the  dreams  with  which 
the  medicine-man  had  tried  to  alarm  them.  And 
when  pressed  more  closely,  he  boldly  charged  Pem- 
beenah  w^ith  being  in  league  with  the  "  bad  trader," 
as  he  called  McCormick,  against  the  friends  of  the 
Indians. 

But  arguments  avail  little  against  hunger.  As  the 
distress  increased,  so  did  the  desire  to  eat  the  flour 
and  cows  of  the  white  men.  Beaubien  saw  that,  if 
the  camp  remained  in  the  vicinity,  the  robbery  and 
massacre  of  the  mission  families  was  inevitable.  And 
so,  at  his  suggestion,  they  moved  off  to  the  Red-River 
Valley,  in  search  of  game.  But  no  moose  could  they 
find.  Now  and  then  they  caught  a  musk-rat,  or  shot 
a  great  snowy  owl,  or  a  prairie-wolf  as  lean  and.hun-. 
gry  as  themselves.  And  still  their  cheeks  grew  thin- 
ner, their  chins  sharper,  and  their  eyes  more  sunken. 
And  as  the  famine  grew  worse,  so  did  the  speeches 


A  Famine  and  a  Feast,  53 

of  Pembeenah  against  the  missionaries  become  more 
vehement. 

At  last  the  young  half-breed  became  greatly  re- 
duced himself.  For,  though  he  was  the  best  hunter 
in  the  party,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  away  the 
most  of  the  game  that  he  captured,  in  order  to  gain 
the  friendship  and  appease  the  anger  of  the  others. 
And  so  one  morning,  utterly  dejected  and  faint  from 
hunger,  he  walked  out  of  the  catip.  He  saw  that  he 
could  no  longer  restrain  the  inclination  of  the  sav- 
ages to  rob  the  missionaries.  Wandering  about, 
without  purpose  or  hope,  he  climbed  a  little  knoll, 
from  the  summit  of  which  there  was  quite  a  view  of  the 
prairie.  It  was  a  clear  and  bitter  cold  morning,  and 
the  "sun-dogs,''  ox  parhelia^  were  shining  so  brilliantly 
that  there  really  seemed  to  be  three  suns.  This  phe- 
nomenon is  usually  seen  from  fifteen  to  thirty  times 
in  a  winter  in  that  country.  But  on  the  morning  we 
speak  of,Baptiste  beheld  a  phenomenon  that  is  not 
often  seen,  even  in  that  climate.  It  was  a  mirage  of 
extraordinary  brilliancy,  in  which  the  Leaf  Hills,  forty 
or  fifty  miles  away,  and  usually  out  of  sight  from  that 
point,  appeared  inverted  upon  the  sky.  This  optical 
illusion  is  caused  by  refraction ;  the  strata  of  air  being 
of  different  temperature,  and,  of  course,  of  different 


54 


The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 


degrees  of  density.  An  acquaintance  of  the  writer 
once  saw  these  same  hills  in  such  a  mirage  at  the 
distance  of  sixty-four  miles. 

Baptiste  could  not  help  a  certain  feeling  of  super- 
stitious awe  as  he  looked  at  this  remarkable  sight ; 
but  suddenly  remembering  how  effectually  such  a 
sight  might  be  used  on  the  minds  of  the  Indians,  he 
hastened  back  to  the  camp.  But  he  was  too  late. 
Pembeenah  had  seen  the  same  spectacle  from 
another  point,  and  was  just  relating^  when  Baptiste 
came  up,  that  he  had  seen  a  spirit  during  the  night 
who  had  told  him  that  the  Great  Spirit  was  so  angry 
at  the  tribe  for  not  killing  the  missionaries,  that  he 
had  hung  the  Leaf  Hills  in  the  sky  upside  down,  and 
that,  if  they  would  go  to  a  certain  point,  they  could 
see  the  wonderful  sight  for  themselves. 

With  the  utmost  eagerness  they  all  started  up  to 
see  the  new  wonder.  Baptiste  felt  that  his  doom  was 
sealed.  He  knew  that  the  medicine-man  would  first 
use  the  influence  which  the  sight  would  give  him  for  the 
destruction  of  himself.  What  was  his  relief  to  find, 
on  reaching  the  designated  place,  that  the  mirage  had 
entirely  disappeared  !  The  influence  of  the  sun  had 
destroyed  the  atmospheric  conditions  that  produced 
it.  The  medicine-man  was  utterly  discomfited,  and 
another  day  was  gained. 


A  Famine  and  a  Feast,  55 

But  Pembeenah  recovered  face  enough  to  make 
another  speech  that  afternoon.  "  We  starve,"  said 
he.  "Will  the  Great  Spiiitsend  us  the  pezhekee  f  rom 
the  country  of  our  enemies  ?  Will  he  make  the  turnip 
grow  in  the  winter  ?  " 

The  pezhekee  are  the  buffalo,  or,  more  properly, 
the  bison.  They  never  have  made  the  Chippewa 
country  their  range,  —  never,  indeed,  approaching 
nearer  than  thirty  miles  west  of  the  Red  River,  which 
is  the  dividing  line  between  the  Chippewas  and  their 
mortal  enemies,  the  Sioux.  The  turnip  to  which  the 
medicine-man  referred  is  a  bulbous  plant  that  is  quite 
abundant  on  the  prairies  in  the  Chippewa  country. 
It  is  much  prized  for  food,  and  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful streams  in  their  country  is  called  by  its  name. 
This  name  has*unfortunatel)  been  mistranslated  into 
French,  and  the  river  is  now  called  Pomme  de  terre^ 
—  Potato.  It  was  indeed  a  forcible  speech  of  the 
medicine-man,  when  he  demanded  if  they  supposed 
that  the  Great  Spirit  would  send  them  bison,  or  make 
the  turnip  grow  in  winter. 

Baptiste  left  the  camp  stealthily  at  midnight.  He 
knew  that,  when  morning  came,  the  decision  would 
certainly  be  taken  to  return  and  rob  the  missionaries, 
and  he  hoped  to  reach  them  in  time  to  give  warning  of 


c6  I'he  Schoolmaster'' s  Stories, 

their  danger.  To  prevent  ttie  course  of  his  tracks 
betraying  his  destination,  he  made  a  long  circuit  up 
the  valley  of  the  Red  River.  Just  as  he  ascended  to 
the  table-land  that  forms  the  eastern  boundary  of  the 
valley,  he  caught  sight  of  a  mass  of  dark  objects  mov- 
ing over  the  snow.  What  could  they  be  ?  The 
moonlight  was  dim,  but  he  felt  sure  they  were  not 
moose.  Could  it  be  that  the  Sioux  were  on  the  war 
path  in  mid-winter  ?  He  approached  the  objects, 
and  found,  to  his  delight  and  amazement,  that  it  was 
a  herd  of  bison.  His  first  impulse  was  to  fly  back  to 
the  camp,  and  tell  the  good  news.  But  then  he  re- 
flected that,  under  the  circumstances,  he  would  not 
be  believed;  for  nothing  could  be  more  improbable. 
We  should  not  venture  to  tell  the  story  here,  were  it 
not  that  this  single  departure  of  the  bison  from  their 
range  is  a  well-attested  fact,  —  a  fact  never  to  be 
forgotten  by  the  Chippewas,  who  for  the  first  and 
the  last  time  in  their  lives  ate  of  the  flesh  of  the 
cattle  of  the  Sioux.  This  strange  migration  was 
owing  to  the  failure  of  food  in  their  usual  haunts. 

Baptiste  wisely  concluded  that  a  story  so  improb- 
able would  need  to  be  sustained  by  positive  evidence. 
And  so  he  set  to  work  to  kill  a  bison,  —  no  easy 
task  on   snow-shoes.     But  he  accomplished  it  about 


A  Famine  and  a  Feast, 


57 


daylight.  Then,  cutting  off  the  tail  and  taking  out 
the  tongue,  he  started  back  to  the  camp.  But  when 
he  arrived,  the  almost  extinct  fires  showed  that  it  had 
been  deserted  for  hours.  The  cause  of  his  absence 
had  evidently  been  surmised;  and  the  Indians  had 


left  in  the  utmost  haste,  and  were  now  far  on  their 
way  toward  the  dwelling-place  of  the  missionaries. 
By  the  most  eager  and  tireless  pursuit,  he  succeeded 
in  overtaking  them  near  their  destination.  He  was 
met  with  fierce  frowns  on  all  sides,  and   some  guns 


58  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

were  raised  threateningly.  But  Baptiste  strode  into 
the  midst  of  the  party,  and,  looking  the  old  juggler  in 
the  face,  he  said,  "  The  Great  Spirit  has  indeed  sent 
the  buffalo  into  the  valley." 

But  the  old  man  grinned  at  him  a  moment,  and 
answered,  "White  man's  son,  do  you  think  we  are 
pappooses,  that  you  try  to  deceive  us  with  idle 
tales  ? " 

Then  Baptiste  drew  forth  the  fresh  tongue  and  the 
tail  from  beneath  his  blanket,  and  asked,  *'  What  are 
these  ? " 

The  swiftest  and  best  hunters  went  back  with 
Baptiste,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  followed  on. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  winter,  the  Chippe- 
was^ate  the  meat  of  the  bison.  It  was  indeed  a  feast 
after  a  famine. 


V. 

SIMPLE   SIMON. 

SUSAN  SMITHERS  sat  on  her  horse  in  per- 
plexity. She  had  started  to  ride  to  the  Baptist 
Association  at  Long  Run,  and  had  suddenly  come  to 
a  place  where  the  road  forked.  She  looked  first  at 
one  road  and  then  at  the  other,  as  though  she  ex- 
pected to  find  out  which  was  the  Long  Run  road  by 
staring  at  them.  But  when  she  was  about  to  give  up 
in  despair,  there  appeared  from  the  bushes  a  curious- 
looking  boy,  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age,  who 
came  up  in  front  of  her  horse,  and  twisting  his  face 
comically,  said,  in  a  muffled  sort  of  way, — 

"  Goin'  t'  meetin'  ?  " 

Susan  scarcely  noticed  his  question,  so  intent  was 
she  on  finding  which  road  would  take  her  to  Long 
Run. 

"  Is  this  the  Long  Run  road  ? "  she  asked,  point- 
ing down  the  right-hand  road. 

59 


6o  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

By  this  time  the  boy  had  come  round  to  the  side 
of  her  horse.  Pointing  his  finger  at  her,  he  cried, 
"  You're  purty  ! '' 

Now  Sukey  Smithers  knew  perfectly  well  that  she 
was  handsome.  Many  a  young  man  at  apple-peel- 
ings had  hinted  as  much,  and  Jack  Potter  had  even 
whispered  it  in  her  ears.  But  to  be  told  it  in  this 
poinjt-blank  fashion  made  her  blush.  Seeing,  too, 
that  the  boy  was  "  not  bright,"  as  the  Western  peo- 
ple phrase  it,  she  began  to  be  anxious  lest  she  should 
fail  to  get  from  him  the  information  she  needed. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Sim,"  he  answered.  Then  he  added,  as  if  he  did 
not  fairly  understand  what  the  words  meant,  " '  Sim's 
Simple,'  folks  says." 

"  Which  is  the  way  to  Long  Run  ? "  asked  Susan, 
returning  to  the  attack. 

"  Goin'  t'  meetin'  ? "  queried  Sim. 

"  Is  this  the  way  to  Long  Run  ? "  persisted  Susan. 

"  You're  purty.  Goin' t'  meetin'  ?  "  and  Sim  kept 
his  finger  levelled  at  her. 

Susan  thought  best  to  answer  his  question  this 
time  by  way  of  drawing  him  out. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to  meeting,"  she  said. 

"  Come,"  cried  Sim,  darting  down   the  left  hand 


Simple  Simon.  6i 

road  and  pointing  ahead  of  him.  Susan  saw  that 
the  boy  was  foolish,  and  besides,  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  try  the  right-hand  road.  But  where  one 
is  in  doubt,  the  guidance  of  a  fool  is  better  than  no 
direction,  so  now  he  rode  on  as  Sim  indicated,  he 
running  ahead  of  her  horse. 

After  half  an  hour  of  such  riding  she  became  un- 
easy. The  country  was  sparsely  settled  in  that  day, 
and  they  had  passed  no  house  at  which  she  could 
have  inquired.  She  might  be  on  the  wrong  track, 
and  at  any  rate  she  was  taking  the  poor,  foolish  lad 
far  out  of  his  way,  and  he  might  not  be  able  to  get 
back. 

So  she  called  him,  and  he  came  back  to  her,  stand- 
ing as  before  with  his  finger  pointing  to  her  face, 
and  crying  out,  "  My  !  you  air  purty !  " 

"  See  here,  Sim  !  "  said  Susan,  speaking  loud,  as 
one  is  apt  to  do  to  a  person  of  weak  understanding, 
"  you  must  go  back  to  your  mother.     You'll  get  lost." 

"  Goin'  t'  meetin'  ? "  queried  Sim,  again. 

"  Yes." 

"  Come  on  ! ''  he  shouted,  running  ahead  of  her 
horse.  Two  or  three  times  Sukey  tried  to  persuade 
him  to  go  back,  but  always  with  a  like  result.  At 
last  they  came  to  a  steep  hill  up  which  Susan's  horse 


62     '  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

climbed  with  difficulty.  Sim  rushed  up  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  and  waited  for  her. 

As  she  came  toward  him  he  said,  "  Goin'  f 
meetin'  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Susan,  anxiously. 

"  See  there  !  "  he  cried.  And  he  pointed  into  the 
valley  of  Long  Run,  which  lay  before  him.  There 
was  the  log  meeting-house  which  was  called  the 
"  Long  Run  Baptist  church,"  and  there  were  innu- 
merable horses  and  wagons  hitched  before  it,  and 
seats  arranged  for  a  grove  meeting.  Sukey  no 
longer  doubted  her  road. 

"  Sim,  you're  a  good  boy." 

"  You're  purty  !  "  he  said.     "  Goin'  t'  meetin  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  See  there  ! "  and  he  pointed  to  the  meeting- 
house again.  "  Git  up  !  "  So  saying,  he  gave  Susan's 
horse  a  smart  slap,  which  started  him  ahead,  while 
Sim  disappeared  down  the  hill  in  the  direction 
whence  they  had  come. 

On  her  way  home  Susan  had  the  company  of  Jack 
Potter.  There  was  no  one  whose  society  she  prized 
more  highly.  And  of  course  the  road  reminded  Su- 
san of  Sim,  and  she  told  Jack  about  him,  and  in 
turn  Jack  told  her  that  Sim  was  a  "  simple  "  child, 


Simple  Simon.  53 

and  that  his  mother  was  a  widow,  who  Hved  in  a  hol- 
low near  by. 

When  they  came  to  the  place  where  Sukey  had 
first  met  him,  there  stood  Sim,  apparently  waiting 
for  her  to  pass  on  her  return.  He  paid  no  attention 
to  Jack  at  all,  but  came  round  to  the  "  off-side  "  of 
Susan's  horse  and  said, — 

"  Been  t'  meetin'  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Susan. 

"  You're  purty." 

"  By  crackey,  you  ain't  such  a  fool  as  I  thought 
you  were,  Sim,"  broke  out  Jack.  "You  told  the 
truth  that  time,  anyhow." 

Sim  understood  this  to  be  some  sort  of  approval, 
and  he  frisked  round  with  delight.  Susan  tossed 
him  a  coin,  and  he  seized  it  and  stuffed  it  into  the 
pocket  of  his  ragged  roundabout.  Then  he  dropped 
behind,  but  he  followed  Jack  and  Susan  for  miles, 
until  he  stood  upon  the  hillside  overlooking  the  beau- 
tiful Ohio  River.  When  he  had  seen  Sukey  dis- 
mount in  Squire  Smither's  yard  he  turned  back,  sat- 
isfied. 

'it  was  three  months  later  that  Squire  Smithers 
stood  by  the  "  steps  "  or  stile  that  crossed  the  fence 
between  his  door-yard  and  the  road,  and  saw  coming 


64  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

toward  him  a  lad  running  wildly  and  all  out  of 
breath.  He  rushed  up  to  Squire  Smithers  and 
blurted  out,  — 

'•'  Where's  the  purty  one  ?  '* 

"  Purty  what?"  said  the  Squire,  half-perplexed  and 
half-amused. 

"  The  purty  one  ;  where's  the  purty  one  ?  " 

The  boy's  face  was  so  full  of  distress  that  the 
Squire,  unable  to  divine  what  he  meant,  called  Je- 
mima Gray,  the  hired  "  help,"  and  asked  her  if  she 
could  tell  what  the  boy  wanted. 

"  No,  no,  not  her,  not  her  !  the  purty  one,"  cried 
Sim. 

"  He  don't  think  you  fill  the  bill,  Jemima,"  laughed 
the  Squire. 

"  Well,  I  'low  he's  simple,  anyhow,"  said  Jemima. 

At  that  moment  Jack  Potter,  who  was  working  for 
the  Squire,  came  up,  and  Sim  rushed  to  him,  crying, 
"Where  is  she  ?     Where's  the  purty  one  ?  " 

"Squire,"  said  Jack,  "  he  means  Susan." 

"Yes,"  said  Jemima,  tartly,  "you  think  they  ain't 
nobody  good-lookin'  but  Susan.  I  'low  you  and 
him's  both  simple." 

But  at  that  moment  Susan  looked  out  of  an  upper 
window,  and  Sim   ended  all  controversy  by  rushing 


Simple  Simon,  65 

into  the  house  and  up  the  stairway,  and  presenting 
himself  with  a  face  all  contorted  before  Sukey. 

"  Come  quick,  mammy's  sick.  Come,'*  and  he 
tugged  at  her  dress. 

As  soon  as  Jack  could  saddle  her  horse,  Sukey 
jumped  into  the  side-saddle,  and  then  Sim  having 
hurriedly  wrenched  a  long  "  water-sprout  "  from  the 
nearest  apple-tree,  sprung  on  behind  and  laid  whip 
so  vigorously  as  to  set  the  horse  into  a  full  gallop. 
But  Susan  rode  well,  and  there  was  no  danger  of  her 
falling  off.  "  Jack,"  said  the  Squire,  "  you'd  better 
ride  after  Susan,  and  see  that  no  harm  happens." 

Jack  readily  assented,  and  meeting  the  doctor  on 
the  road,  took  him  with  him. 

But  no  medicine  could  save  Sim's  mother.  She 
had  a  congestive  chill,  and  though  she  recovered 
from  the  first,  there  came  a  second  the  next  day,  and 
that  carried  her  off.  She  was  buried  at  the  public 
expense,  and  Sim  was  sent  to  the  county  poor-house. 

But  in  about  a  week  afterwards  Sim  escaped  and 
brought  up  at  Squire  Smithers.  And  again  he  asked 
for  "the  purty  one." 

"  Stay  here  !  "  he  said.     "  Sim  stay  here." 

It  was  hard  to  refuse  him.     The  Squire  said  he 


66  .         The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

might  stay  till  the  warden  of  the  poor-house  came  for 
him. 

The  warden  came  along  in  a  day  or  two,  but  Sim 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  After  the  warden  had 
gone  he  crept  down  out  of  the  parlor  chimney  all 
sooted  over  to  the  color  of  a  chimney-sweep. 

"  Sim  stay  here  !  "  he  said,  dancing  about  Susan, 
who  finally  persuaded  her  father  to  have  the  simple 
fellow  indentured  to  him. 

Most  feeble-minded  people  show  some  aptitude, 
and  Sim  soon  found  his  place  in  the  kitchen.  For 
cooking  he  had  a  real  talent,  his  only  weakness  being 
a  disposition  to  select  the  best  that  went  out  of  the 
kitchen  for  Susan's  plate.  So  serviceable  did  he 
become  that  even  Jemima  confessed  that  he  was  "  a 
rale  handy  sort  of  a  little  eejiot,  and  he  would  be  a 
putty  tol'able  sort  of  a  boy  ef  on'y  he  wouldn't  make 
sech  a  extra  fool  of  hisself  about  Susan." 

Manifested  an  aptitude  for  just  two  things :  he 
could  make  himself  *' handy"  in  the  kitchen,  and  he 
could  swim.  His  dog-like  faithfulness  came  in  play 
in  cooking.  But  to  do  a  thing  he  gave  his  whole 
mind  to  that  thing.  No  temptation  to  play  diverted 
him  from  his  work.  Jemima,  the  hired  woman,  ex- 
plained it  in  her  own  way. 


Simple  Simon,  67 

"  He  hain't  got  but  jest  sense  enough  to  take  aholt 
of  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  he  keeps  a  tight  holt  of 
that.  Most  boys  tries  to  think  of  sixty  things  to 
wunst,  but  Sim  hain't  got  no  spar'  thoughts  to  straggle 
round." 

As  for  swimming,  the  Ohio  river  lay  right  before 
him,  smooth  and  warm,  and  the  other  boys  bathed 
in  it  for  hours  every  afternoon  in  summer.  Sim 
seemed  to  swim  without  much  teaching.  It  came 
natural  to  him  as  to  a  frog,  so  the  other  boys  believed. 

Jemima  had  her  way  of  accounting  for  it.  "  His 
head  was  light,"  she  averred;  "  didn't  weigh  nothin'. 
It  was  kind  of  windy  inside,"  she  'lowed,  "  like  as  not, 
and  kep'  him  up  like  a  life-pfeserv  or  what-you-may- 
call-it." 

This  explanation  pleased  the  boys,  who  were  not 
a  little  chagrined  that  a  simpleton  should  swim  so 
much  better  than  they. 

Jack  Potter  worked  as  a  hired  man  for  Squire  Smith- 
ers.  He  was  even  more  attached  to  Susan  than  Sim 
was.  You  think,  no  doubt,  that  the  Squire  objected 
to  Jack  because  he  was  poor  and  only  a  hired  man, 
and  that  there  must  be  a  romance  in  the  case.  Noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  Society  at  the  West  was  very  simple 
in  those  days,  and  nobody  was  fool  enough  to  think 


68  The  Schoolmaster^ s  Stories. 

that  there  was  any  disgrace  involved  in  a  man's  earn- 
ing an  honest  living  by  working  for  wages. 

If  Jack  was  poor  he  was  also  industrious,  honest, 
temperate,  and  of  good  disposition.  Squire  Smithers 
knew  that  Susan  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse. 
Jemima  gave  it  as  her  opinion  in  a  private  way  that 
Susan  would  get  the  best  of  the  bargain.  "  Jack  was 
a  hard-working  man  and  might  better  a  took  some- 
body used  to  hard  work,  too.  He'd  find  out  some 
day  what  'twas  to  s'port  a  gal  with  Susan's  high-flung 
idees ! " 

Jack's  chief  characteristic  was  his  immense  physi- 
cal strength.  He  could  lift  a  backlog  bigger  than 
himself,  and  carry  it  bodily  into  the  house.  Once 
Mrs.  Smithers  asked  Jack  to  pound  the  ashes  in  her 
ash-hopper. 

"  Pound  them  well,  Jack.  I  want  to  make  my  lye 
strong  enough  to  bear  an  ^gg.^^ 

So  Jack  pounded  layer  after  layer  of  ashes  into  the 
little-at-the-bottom  and  big-at-the-top  ash-hopper. 
When  he  was  done,  water  was  poured  on  the  top. 
But  the  ashes  were  so  solidly  packed  that  water 
couldn't  find  its  way  down.  Most  of  it  dried  up  on 
top. 

For  three  weeks  the  water  kept  trying  to  penetrate 


Simple  Simon,  69 

these  ashes.  At  last  the  lye  began  to  soak  through, 
and  to  drop  into  the  "  dug-out "  wooden  trough  be- 
low. 

As  soon  as  enough  had  come  through  Jemima  pro- 
ceeded to  try  it,  to  see  if  it  were  strong  enough  to 
bear  an  egg  as  large  as  a  "  fip,"  that  is,  to  float  an 
^gg  so  that  a  spot  as  large  as  an  old-fashioned  six- 
and-a-quarter  cent  piece  would  show  above  the  sur- 
face. But  to  her  surprise  the  ^gg  floated  around  on 
top  of  the  lye  as  though  it  were  of  wood. 

Jemima  immediately  reported  that  "that  air  lye 
was  strong  enough  to  pack  a  backlog  into  the  house, 
any  day." 

As  Jack  and  Sukey  were  to  be  married  in  the 
spring,  Jack  thought  necessary  to  make  a  little  more 
money  than  he  was  able  to  make  at  work  by  the 
month.  So  he  resolved  to  take  a  flat-boat  load  of 
produce  to  New  Orleans,  and  the  Squire  offered  to 
help  him  to  a  little  capital  for  the  enterprise. 

So  Jack  bought  a  flat-boat  at  Cincinnati,  and  floated 
it  down  to  the  mouth  of  Cherry  Creek.  Here  it  was 
turned  over  and  caulked.  Then  a  roof  was  put  on  and 
the  boat  was  dropped  down  to  Smithers'  Landing,  and 
loaded  with  hay,  onions,  apples,  and  some  other  prod- 
uce. 


70  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

The  necessary  hands  were  hired,  and  a  young  fellow 
was  engaged  to  go  as  cook.  But  on  the  very  day  that 
Jack's  boat  was  to  start,  the  cook  declined  to  go,  and 
Jack  was  obliged  to  supply  his  place.  It  happened, 
however,  that  no  one  was  to  be  had.  Not  that  a  skil- 
ful cook  was  needed. 

To  fry  fat  pork  and  boil  potatoes  and  coffee  a  da 
flat-boat  de  Mississippi  was  not  a  difficult  task.  But 
to  find  anybody  on  short  notice  who  would  do  for  the 
place  was  hard,  and  a  day's  delay  might  cause  the 
boat  to  be  caught  in  the  ice  before  she  could  get  out 
of  the  Ohio.  Jack  needed  all  his  hands  to  row,  and  to 
spare  one  of  them  to  do  the  cooking  would  reduce  the 
speed  of  the  boat  and  increase  the  risk  from  ice. 

As  a  last  resort,  he  resolved  to  take  Sim.  But  Sim 
would  not  go.  He  was  determined  to  stay  by  Susan. 
Susan  appreciated  the  necessity,  and  finally  hit  upon  a 
device  to  get  the  simple  fellow  to  go. 

"  Sim,"  she  said,  "  go  and  take  care  of  Jack.  If  Jack 
gets  drowned,  Susan  will  cry.  Sim  go  and  keep  Jack. 
Sim  bring  Jack  home  to  Susan.  Sim  good  boy.  Susan 
love  Sim." 

Slowly  the  dullard  took  in  her  words.  At  first  he 
looked  at  her  ruefully.  Then  he  began  to  understand 
that  she  was  putting  a  new  duty  upon  him.  Susan  re- 
peated more  carefully,^- 


Simple  Simon,  71 

*^Sim  can  swim.  Jack  fall  into  the  river,  maybe. 
Sim  jump  in,  pull  Jack  out.  Sim  good  boy.  Sim  come 
back  to  Susan.     Susan  love  Sim." 

Then  she  patted  him  approvingly,  and  Sim  jumped 
up  and  down  with  pleasure,  and  cried  out  as  he  always 
did  when  pleased,  "Hurraih!"  which  made  Jemima 
cover  her  mouth  with  her  apron  in  the  endeavor  to 
smother  her  laughter. 

"What  an  eejiot !"  she  cried  to  herself. 

Sim  followed  Jack  aboard,  took  his  place  at  the  fire- 
place, and  with  some  prompting  from  Jack,  soon 
learned  to  perform  his  duties  acceptably. 

But  little  did  Susan  imagine  what  a  burden  she  was 
putting  on  Jack.  Sim  dogged  his  steps  by  day  and 
night.  If  Jack  stood  watch  himself  on  a  particularly 
bad  night,  Sim  would  stand  out  in  the  storm  by  the 
steering  oar  with  him  lest  he  should  be  blown  off  the 
deck  of  the  boat. 

When  Jack  went  ashore  Sim  went  also,  to  the  sad 
neglect  of  his  duties.  He  followed  Jack  all  over  Mem- 
phis one  day,  and  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  people 
with  whom  the  latter  had  business  by  his  strange  gri- 
maces. The  hands  on  the  boat  called  him  "Jack's 
guardian  angel." 

When  I  was  a  boy  nothing  angered  me  so  much 


J  2  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

as  the  geographies  made  in  New  England.  They 
had  pictures  of  fiat-boats  rowed  by  single  oarsmen 
who  sat  down  to  row.  As  if  any  child  did  not  know 
what  a  flat-boat  was!  And  even  in  the  last  few 
years  a  great  Boston  publishing  house  has  issued  a 
juvenile  in  which  Abraham  Lincoln  is  represented  as 
handling  a  short  flat-boat  oar  all  by  himself.  How 
Old  Abe  would  have  laughed  at  that  picture  !  How 
many  little  stories  he  would  have  been  reminded  of ! 

Now  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  Jack  Potter's 
great  flat-boat  had  long  oars  that  were  handled  by 
from  two  to  four  men  apiece,  who  stood  up  on  the 
deck  and  walked  round  after  the  sweep  of  the  oar  as 
they  pushed  it. 

It  was  on  this  boat  that  Sim  made  his  voyage  to 
New  Orleans.  One  day  the  boat  had  broken  the 
blade  of  one  of  these  great  oars  by  running  into  a 
drift-pile.  The  oar  had  been  shipped  and  taken 
aboard  to  be  mended,  while  the  boat  floated  along  on 
the  swift  current. 

It  was  just  then  in  what  are  called  the  "  boils  "  of 
the  Mississippi.  These  are  great  rushing  whirls  in 
the  river  which  boil  up  as  though  some  water  mon- 
ster was  floundering  below.  I  do  not  know  what  is 
the  scientific  solution  of  the  phenomenon.     The  flat- 


Simple  Simon,  73 

boatmen  of  old  times  used  to  believe  that  there  was 
no  bottom  beneath  these  "  boils."  They  had 
sounded  with  long  lines,  and  had  not  been  able  to 
find  any  bottom,  probably  because  the  lines  had 
floated  the  lead. 

Now  while  Jack's  men  were  minding  the  oar  and 
the  boat  was  rapidly  floating  through  the  boils,  the 
skiff  which  was  fastened  to  the  stern  of  the  boat  be- 
came loosened  in  some  way  and  drifted  away.  A 
simultaneous  cry  that  the  yawl  was  gone  attracted 
Jack's  attention,  and  he  forthwith  declared  his  pur- 
pose of  swimming  after  it. 

The  men  endeavored  to  dissuade  him.  They  told 
him  that  no  man  could  swim  in  the  boils,  and  they 
besought  him  not  to  try  it.  But  Jack  knew  his  own 
immense  strength,  and  he  pooh-poohed  their  non- 
sense about  the  boils  being  bottomless.  The  skiff 
was  new  and  he  was  quite  unwilling  to  lose  it,  and 
besides  it  bore  the  name  of  "  Susan,"  and  the  men 
thought  it  a  "bad  sign  "for  it  to  float  off, — in 
which  superstition  Jack  probably  had  some  share. 
At  any  rate,  he  avowed  his  intention  to  recapture 
the  skiff  or  "  die  a-trying." 

But  just  at  that  moment  Sim  put  his  head  up 
above  the  hatchway,  and  seeing  Jack  about  to  plunge 


74  -2^^  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

into  the  water  where  it  looked  so  perilous,  ran  up 
and  caught  hold  of  him,  crying,  "  No,  no  ;  Susan, 
Susan ! " 

Jack  ordered  the  men  to  hold  the  boy  while  he  let 
himself  over  the  side.  He  might  have  succeeded  in 
capturing  the  skiE,  but  this  delay  had  given  it  time 
to  drift  farther  away  in  the  eddies  formed  by  the 
boils.  Jack  had  not  swam  thirty  yards  until  he  was 
caught  in  one  of  these  whirlpools  and  irresistibly 
carried  under. 

"That's  the  last  of  Jack  Potter,^'  cried  the  old  pilot, 
for  no  man  had  ever  been  known  to  come  up  who 
went  down  into  a  boil,  nor  had  any  man's  body  ever 
been  found  when  once  it  had  been  sucked'into  one  of 
these  whirlpools. 

But,  thanks  to  Jack's  strength  and  undying  per- 
severance, he  reached  the  surface  at  last,  though  the 
men  could  see  that  he  was  all  but  utterly  exhausted, 
and  likely  to  drift  into  another  boil. 

In  the  confusion  the  men  had  let  go  of  Sim,  who  was 
now  tugging  to  throw  the  great  oarsweep  overboard. 
The  men  caught  his  idea  and  pitched  it  over  in  a  sort 
of  vain  hope  that  it  might  reach  the  drowning  man. 
But  Sim,  not  content  with  this,  jumped  after  it. 

The  outer  end  of  the  long  oar  came  so  near  to  Jack 


Simple  Simon,  75 

that  he  grasped  it  feebly.  In  a  moment  the  other 
end,  to  which  Sim  clung,  was  caught  in  a  violent  eddy 
and  swung  round  so  as  to  bring  it  near  to  the  skiff. 

Sim  climbed  into  the  skiff  and  propelled  it  as  best 
his  unskilful  hands  could,  toward  Jack. 

He  reached  him  at  last,  but  could  not  pull  the  ex- 
hausted and  fainting  man  into  the  boat.  They  were 
drifting  right  into  another  boil,  when  Jack  must  go 
down,  as  all  the  men  could  see  plainly. 

But  Sim's  faculties  seemed  suddenly  awakened. 
He  appreciated  the  danger  by  intuition,  and  ran  the 
skiff-rope  under  Jack's  arms  and  made  a  knot. 

He  did  not  finish  it  a  moment  too  soon.  Jack  was 
jedced  under  suddenly,  and  but  for  the  rope  must  have 
gone  down  forever.  But  Sim  now  paddled  away  for 
the  fiat-boat,  and  at  last  brought  the  skiff  alongside,  so 
that  the  men  could  jump  in  and  Kft  the  all  but  lifeless 
Jack  on  board. 

Sim  was  found  to  be  badly  bruised,  but  his  joy  knew 
no  bound,  and  he  never  was  quite  the  same.  The 
shock  had  started  his  mental  faculties  into  action. 

When  after  two  months  more  he  stood  before  Susan 
and  pointed  to  Jack  in  exultation,  crying,  "Sim  pull 
him  out,  hurraih  !  "  Susan  thought  she  could  already 
see  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  for  Sim.     And  after  he 


76 


The  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 


went  to  live  with  Jack  and  Susan  in  their  new  home, 
he  improved  greatly,  so  that  though  he  was  never  re- 
garded as  entirely  "bright,"  he  grew  to  be  a  useful 
man  in  his  way.  And  he  never  forgot  his  devotion  to 
Susan,  who  was  to  the  end  of  life  his  patron  saint. 


VI. 

kitty's  forty. 

*  TT  doesn't  do  men  any  good  to  live  apart  from 
JL  women  and  children.  I  never  knew  a  boys'  school 
in  which  there  was  not  a  tendency  to  rowdyism.  And 
lumbermen,  sailors,  fishermen,  and  all  other  men  that 
live  only  with  men,  are  proverbially  a  half-bear  sort  of 
people.  Frontiermen  soften  down  when  women  and 
children  come  —  but  I  forget  myself,  it  is  the  story  you 
want. 

Burton  and  Jones  lived  in  a  shanty  by  themselves. 
Jones  was  a  married  man,  but  finding  it  hard  to  sup- 
port his  wife  in  a  down-east  village,  he  had  emigrated 
to  Northern  Minnesota,  leaving  his  wife  under  her 
father's  roof,  until  he  should  be  able  to  "  make  a  start." 
He  and  Burton  had  gone  into  partnership  and  had 
"pre-empted  a  town  site  "  of  three  hundred  and  twen- 
ty acres. 

There    were,    perhaps,    twenty    families    scattered 


78  The  Schoolmasier's  Stories, 

sparsely  over  this  town  site  at  the  time  my  story  begins 
and  endSj  for  it  ends  in  the  same  week  in  which  it  be- 
gins. 

The  partners  had  disagreed,  quarrelled,  and  divided 
their  interests.  The  land  was  all  shared  between  them 
except  one  valuable  forty-acre  piece.  Each  of  them 
claimed  that  piece  of  land,  and  the  quarrel  had  grown 
so  high  between  them  that  the  neighbors  expected 
them  to  "  shoot  at  sight."  In  fact,  it  was  understood 
that  Burton  was  on  the  forty-acre  piece,  determined  to 
shoot  Jones  if  he  came,  and  Jones  had  sworn  to  go 
out  there  and  shoot  Burton,  when  the  fight  was  post- 
poned by  the  unexpected  arrival  of  Jones'  wife  and 
child. 

Jones'  shanty  was  not  finished,  and  he  was  forced  to 
forego  the  luxury  of  fighting  his  old  partner,  in  his  ex- 
ertions to  make  wife  and  baby  comfortable  for  the 
night.  For  the  winter  sun  was  surrounded  by  ^'sun- 
dogs."  Instead  of  one  sun  there  were  four,  an  occur- 
rence not  uncommon  on  this  latitude,  but  one  which 
always  bodes  a  terrible  storm. 

In  his  endeavor  to  care  for  wife  and  child,  Jones  was 
molKfied  a  little,  and  half  regretted  that  he  had  been 
so  violent  about  the  piece  of  land.  But  he  was  deter- 
mined not  to  be  backed  down,  and  he  would  certainly 
have  to  shoot  Burton  or  be  shot  himself. 


Kitty's  Forty.  79 

When  he  thought  of  the  chance  of  being  killed  by 
his  old  partner,  the  prospect  was  not  pleasant.  He 
looked  wistfully  at  Kitty,  his  two  years'  old  child,  and 
dreaded  that  she  would  be  left  fatherless.  Neverthe- 
less, he  wouldn't  be  backed  down.  He  would  shoot 
or  be  shot. 

While  the  father  was  busy  cutting  wood,  and  the 
mother  was  busy  otherwise,  little  Kitty  managed  to  get 
the  shanty-door  open.  There  was  no  latch  as  yet,  and 
her  prying  little  fingers  easily  swung  it  back.  A  gust 
of  cold  air  almost  took  away  her  breath,  but  she  caught 
sight  of  the  brown  grass  without,  and  the  new  world 
seemed  so  big  that  the  little  feet  were  fain  to  try  and 
explore  it. 

She  pushed  out  through  the  door,  caught  her  breath 
again,  and  started  away  down  a  path  bordered  by  sere 
grass  and  the  dead  stalks  of  the  wild  sunflower. 

How  often  she  had  longed  to  escape  from  restraint 
and  paddle  out  into  the  world  alone  !  So  out  into  the 
world  she  went,  rejoicing  in  her  Hberty,  in  the  blue  sky 
above  and  the  rusty  prairie  beneath.  She  would  find 
out  where  the  path  went  to,  and  what  there  was  at  the 
end  of  the  world  !  What  did  she  care  if  her  nose  was 
blue  with  cold,  and  her  chubby  hands  red  as  beets. 
Now  and  then  she  paused  to  turn  her  head  away  from 


8o  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

a  rude  blast,  a  forerunner  of  the  storm ;  but  having 
gasped  a  moment,  she  quickly  renewed  her  brave 
march  in  search  of  the  great  unknown. 

The  mother  missed  her,  and  supposed  that  Jones, 
who  could  not  get  enough  of  the  child's  society,  had 
taken  the  little  pet  out  with  him. 

Jones,  poor  fellow,  sure  that  the  darling  was  safe 
within,  chopped  away  until  that  awful  storm  broke  upon 
him,  and  at  last  drove  him,  half-smothered  by  snow 
and  half-frozen  with  cold,  into  the  house.  When  there 
was  nothing  left  but  retreat,  he  had  seized  an  armful  of 
wood  and  carried  it  into  the  house  with  him,  to  make 
sure  of  having  enough  to  keep  his  wife  and  Kitty  from 
freezing  in  the  coming  awfulness  of  the  night,  which 
now  settled  down  upon  the  storm-beaten  and  snow- 
blinding  world. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  that  horrible  storm  in  which 
so  many  people  were  frozen  to  death,  and  Jones  had 
fled  none  too  soon. 

When  once  the  wood  was  stacked  by  the  stove, 
Jones  looked  round  for  Kitty.  He  had  not  more  than 
inquired  for  her  when  father  and  mother  each  read  in 
the  other's  face  the  fact  that  she  was  lost  in  this  wild, 
dashing  storm  of  snow. 

So  fast  did  the  snow  fall  and  so  dark  was  the  night, 


Kittys  Forty,  8i 

that  Jones  could  not  see  three  feet  ahead  of  him.  He 
endeavored  to  follow  the  path,  which  he  thought  Kitty 
might  have  taken,  but  it  was  buried  in  snow-drifts, 
and  he  soon  lost  himself. 

He  stumbled  through  the  drifts,  calling  out  to  Kitty 
in  his  distress,  but  not  knowing  whither  he  went. 
After  an  hour  of  despairing,  wandering  and  shouting, 
he  came  upon  a  house,  and  having  rapped  at  the  door, 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  wife. 

He  had  returned  to  his  own  house  in  his  bewilder- 
ment. 

When  we  remember  that  Jones  had  not  slept  for 
two  nights  preceding  this  one,  on  account  of  his  mortal 
quarrel  with  Burton,  and  that  he  had  now  been  beating 
against  an  arctic  hurricane,  and  tramping  through 
treacherous  billows  of  snow  for  an  hour,  we  cannot 
wonder  that  he  fell  over  his  own  threshold  in  a  state  of 
extreme  exhaustion. 

Happy  for  him  that  he  did  not  fall  bewildered  on 
the  prairie,  as  many  another  poor  wayfarer  did  on  that 
fatal  night ! 

As  it  was,  his  wife  must  needs  give  up  the  vain  little 
searches  she  had  been  making  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  shanty.  She  had  now  a  sick  husband,  with  frozen 
hands  and  feet  and  face  to  care  for.     Every  minute 


82  TJie  Schoolmaster's  Stories, 

the  thermometer  fell  lower  and  lower,  and  all  the  heat 
the  little  cook-stove  in  Jones'  shanty  could  give  would 
hardly  keep  them  from  freezing. 

Burton  had  stayed  upon  that  forty-acre  lot  all  day 
waiting  for  a  chance  to  shoot  his  old  partner  Jones. 
He  had  not  heard  of  the  arrival  of  Jones'  wife,  and  so 
he  concluded  that  his  enemy  had  proved  a  coward  and 
had  left  him  in  possession,  or  else  that  he  meant  to 
play  him  some  treacherous  trick  on  his  way  home. 

So  Burton  resolved  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout.  But 
he  soon  found  that  impossible,  for  the  storm  was  upon 
him  in  all  its  Winding  fury.  He  tried  to  follow  the 
path,  but  he  could  not  find  it. 

Had  he  been  less  of  a  frontierman  he  must  have 
perished  there,  within  a  furlong  of  his  own  house. 
But  in  endeavoring  to  keep  the  direction  of  the  path 
he  heard  a  smothered  cry,  and  then  saw  something  rise 
up  covered  with  snow  and  fall  down  again.  He  raised 
his  gun  to  shoot  it,  when  the  creature  uttered  another 
wailing  cry  so  human  that  he  put  down  his  gun  and 
went  cautiously  forw^ard. 

It  was  a  child  ! 

He  did  not  remember  that  there  was  such  a  child 
among  all  the  settlers  in  Newtown.  But  he  did  not 
stop   to  ask  questions.     He  must,  without  delay,  get 


Kitty's  Forty.  Z^ 

himself  and  the  child,  too,  to  a  place  of  safety,  or  both 
would  soon  be  frozen. 

So  he  took  the  little  thing  in  his  arms  and  started 
through  the  drifts.  And  the  child  put  her  little  icy 
fingers  on  Burton's  rough  cheek  and  muttered  "Papa  !  " 
And  Burton  held  her  closer  and  fought  the  snow  more 
courageously  than  ever. 

He  found  the  shanty  at  last,  and  rolled  the  child  in 
a  buffalo-robe,  while  he  made  a  fire.  Then  when  he 
had  got  the  room  a  little  warm,  he  took  the  little  thing 
upon  his  knee,  dipped  her  aching  fingers  in  cold  water, 
and  asked  her  what  her  name  was. 

"  Kitty,"  she  said. 

"Kitty,"  he  said;  "and  what  else?  " 

"Kitty,"  she  answered,  nor  could  he  find  out  any 
more. 

"Whose  Kitty  are  you  ?" 

"Your  Kitty,"  she  said.  For  she  had  known  her 
father  but  that  one  day,  and  now  she  believed  that 
Burton  was  he. 

Burton  sat  up  all  night  and  stuffed  wood  into  his  im- 
potent little  stove  to  keep  the  baby  from  freezing  to 
death.  Never  having  had  to  do  with  children,  he 
firmly  believed  that  Kitty,  sleeping  snugly  under  blan- 
kets and  buffalo-robes,  would  freeze  if  he  should  let 
the  fire  subside  in  the  least. 


84  The  Schoolmaster's  Stories. 

As  the  storm  prevailed  with  unabating  fury  the  next 
day,  and  as  he  dared  neither  to  take  Kitty  out  nor  to 
leave  her  alone,  he  stayed  by  her  all  day  and  stuffed 
the  stove  with  wood,  and  laughed  at  her  droll  baby 
talk,  and  fed  her  on  biscuit  and  fried  bacon  and 
coffee. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  the  storm  had 
subsided.  It  was  forty  degrees  cold,  but  knowing 
somebody  must  be  mourning  Kitty  for  dead,  he 
wrapped  her  in  skins,  and  with  much  difficulty  reached 
the  nearest  neighbor's  house,  suffering  only  a  frost-bite 
on  his  nose  by  the  way. 

"That  child,"  said  the  woman  to  whose  house  he 
had  come,  "is  Jones'.  I  seed  'em  take  her  outen  the 
wagon  day  before  yesterday." 

Burton  looked  at  Kitty  a  moment  in  perplexity. 
Then  he  rolled  her  up  again,  and  started  out,  "  travel- 
ling like  mad,"  the  woman  said,  as  she  watched  him. 

When  he  reached  Jones',  he  found  Jones  and  his 
wife  sitting  in  utter  wretchedness  by  the  fire.  They 
v/ere  both  sick  from  grief,  and  unable  to  move  out  of 
the  house.  Kitty  they  had  given  up  for  buried  alive 
under  some  snow-mound.  They  would  find  her  when 
spring  should  come  and  melt  the  snow-cover  ofT. 

When  the  exhausted  Burton  came  in  with  his  bundle 


Kitty s  Forty,  85 

of  buffalo-skins,  they  boked  at  him  with  amazement. 
But  when  he  opened  it  and  let  out  the  little  Kitty,  and 
said,  — 

"Here,  Jones,  is  this  yer  Kitten?"  Mrs.  Jones 
couldn't  think  of  any  thing  better  to  do  than  to 
scream. 

And  Jones  got  up  and  took  his  old  partner's  hand 
and  said,  "Burton,  ole  fellow  ! "  and  then  choked  up 
and  sat  down  and  cried  helplessly. 

And  Burton  said,  "  Jones,  ole  fellow,  you  may  have 
that  forty-acre  patch.  It  come  mighty  nigh  makin' 
me  the  murderer  of  that  little  Kitty's  father." 

"No  !  you  shall  take  it  yourself,"  cried  Jones,  "if  I 
have  to  go  to  law  to  make  you." 

And  Jones  actually  deeded  his  interest  in  the  forty 
acres  to  Burton.  But  Burton  transferred  it  all  to 
Kitty. 

That  is  why  this  part  of  Newtown  is  called  to-day 
"Kitty's  Forty." 


The  Cellar  Door  Club. 


I. 

THE  STORY  OF  A   FLUTTER-WHEEL. 

WHAT  queer  places  boys  have  of  assem- 
bling. Sometimes  in  one  place,  sometimes 
in  another.  Hay-mows,  river-banks,  threshing-floors, 
these  were  the  old  places  of  resort  for  country  boys. 
And  nothing  was  so  sweet  to  me,  when  I  was-  a  boy, 
as  the  newly  cut  clover-hay  where  I  sat  with  two  or 
three  companions,  watching  the  barn  swallows  chat- 
tering their  incomprehensible  gabble  and  gossip  from 
the  doors  of  their  mud  houses  in  the  rafters.  And 
what  stories  we  told  and  what  talks  we  had.  In  the 
city  who  does  not  remember  the  old-fashioned  cellar- 
door,  sloping  down  to  the  ground  ?  These  were  always 
places  of  resort.  I'm  afraid  there  are  many  evil 
things  learned  in  these  places  of  resort,  but  there 
are  also  many  good  things.  A  boy's  parents  ought 
to  know  whom  he  meets,  but  he  must  have  company. 
Tom  Miller  was  the  minister's  son,  and  there  was 


90  The  Cellar  Door  Club, 

a  party  of  boys  who  met  regularly  on  Parson  Miller's 
cellar-door.  Mrs.  Miller  used  herself  to  listen  to  the 
stories  they  told,  as  she  sat  by  the  window  above 
them,  though  they  were  unconscious  of  her  presence. 
They  were  boys  full  of  life  and  ambition,  but  they  were 
a  good  set  of  boys  on  the  whole,  and  it  was  not  till  les- 
sons were  learned  and  work  done  that  they  met  thus 
on  the  cellar-door.  They  belonged  to  the  same  Sun- 
day-school class,  and  besides  were  "  cronies  "  in  all 
respects.  There  was  Tom  Miller,  the  minister's  son, 
who  intended  to  be  a  minister  himself,  and  Jimmy 
Jackson,  the  shoemaker's  boy,  as  full  of  fun  and  play- 
fulness as  a  kitten,  and  poor  Will  Sampson  who  stam- 
mered, and  Harry  Wilson,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  bank- 
er, and  a  brave  boy  too,  and  John  Harlan,  the  wid- 
ow's son,  pale  and  slender,  the  pet  of  all,  and  great, 
stout  Hans  Schlegel,  who  bade  fair  to  be  a  great 
scholar.  These  half  dozen  were  nearly  always  on 
the  cellar  door  for  half  an  hour  on  Friday  evenings, 
when  they  happened  to  have  a  little  more  leisure  than 
on  other  evenings. 

"  I  say,  boys,"  said  Hans,  "  I've  got  an  idea." 
"  How  strange  it  must  seem  to  you,"  said  Tom  Mil- 
ler; whereupon  they  all  laughed,  good-natured  Hans 
with  the  rest. 


The  Story  of  a  Flutter-wheeL  91 

"  Do  let's  hear  it,"  said  Harry ;  "  there  has  not 
been  an  idea  in  this  crowd  for  a  month." 

"  Well,"  said  Hans,  "  let's  every  fellow  tell  a  story 
here  on  the  cellar-door,  turn  about  on  Friday  even- 
ings." 

"  All  except  m-m-me,"  stammered  Sampson,  who 
was  always  laughing  at  his  own  defect;  "I  c-c-couldn't 
g-g-get  through  be-be-fore  midnight." 

"Well,"  said  Miller,  "we'll  make  Will  Sampson 
chairman,  to  keep  us  in  order.'* 

They  all  agreed  to  this,  and  Sampson  moved  up 
to  the  top  of  the  cellar-door  and  said:  "G-g-gentle- 
men,  th-th-this  is  th-th-the  proudest  m-m-moment  of 
my  life.  I'm  president  of  the  C-c-cellar-d-d-door-c- 
club!  M-m-many  thanks!  Harry  Wilson  will  tell 
the  first  st-st-story." 

"  Agreed !  "  said  the  boys.  After  thinking  a  min- 
ute, Harry  began. 


92  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

HARRY  WILSON'S  STORY. 

I  will  tell  you  a  story  that  my  father  told  me.  In 
a  village  in  Pennsylvania,  on  the  banks  of  the  Schuyl- 
kill river,  there  lived  a  wealthy  man. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Jimmy  Jackson. 

"B-be  st-still!  Come  to  order  tk-th-there,  Jack- 
son," stammered  the  chairman,  and  the  story 
went  on. 

Yes,  once  upon  a  time,  there  lived  a  wealthy  man 
who  had  two  sons.  The  father  was  very  anxious  to 
make  great  men  of  them,  or  at  least,  educated  men. 
I  think,  or  rather  my  father  thinks,  that  their  father 
used  to  dream  that  one  of  these  boys  would  grow  to 
be  president,  and  that  the  other  would  be  a  member 
of  Congress,  at  any  rate.  But  whilst  his  younger  son 
grew  to  be  a  good  student,  the  other  one  was  a  good, 
honest,  industrious,  and  intelligent  boy,  who  did  not 
much  like  books.  His  father  intended  to  make  him 
a  lawyer,  and  he  got  on  well  enough  in  Arithmetic  and 
Geography,  but  Grammar  came  hard,  and  when  he 
got  into  Latin  he  blundered  dreadfully.  He  studied 
to  please  his  parents,  and  from  a  sense  of  duty,  but 
it  mortified  him  greatly  to  think  that  he  could  not  suc- 
ceed as  the  other  boys  did.  For  you  know  it  is  hard 
to  succeed  at  any  thing  unless  your  heart  is  in  it. 


The  Story  of  a  Flutter-wheel. 


93 


And  so  one  night  he  sat  down  and  cried  to  think  he 
must  always  be  a  dolt.  His  mother  found  him  weep- 
ing and  tried  to  comfort  him.  She  walked  out  in 
the  dusky  evening  with  him  and  talked.  But  poor 
David,  for  that  was  his  name,  was  broken-hearted. 
He  had  tried  with  all  his  might  to  get  interested  In 


''  Hie,  haec,  hoc,"  but  it  was  of  no  use.  He  said  there 
was  something  lacking  in  his  head.  **  And  I'll  never 
amount  to  any  thing,  never !  Brother  Joe  gets  his 
lesson  in  a  few  minutes,  and  I  can't  get  mine  at  all." 
His  mother  did  not  know  what  to  say.  But  she 
only  said  that  God  fiad  some  use  for  everybody. 
She  knew  that  David  was  not  wantin^f  in  intelligence. 


94  The  Cellar  Door  Club, 

In  practical  affairs  he  showed  more  shrewdness  than 
his  brother.  But  his  father  had  set  his  heart  on  mak- 
ing him  a  scholar.  That  very  day  the  teacher  had 
said  to  his  father  that  it  was  no  use. 

"  Your  father,"  she  said,  "  intends  to  take  you  from 
school,  and  it  is  a  great  disappointment  to  him. 
But  we  know  that  you  have  done  your  best,  and  you 
must  not  be  disheartened.  If  you  were  lazy,  we 
should  feel  a  great  deal  worse. '^ 

Just  then  they  came  to  the  orchard  brook.  Here 
she  saw  in  the  dim  light  something  moving  in  the 
water. 

"What  is  that,  David? "  she  said. 
"  That's  my  flutter-wheel,  and  I  feel  like  breaking 
it  to  pieces."  "  Why  ? "  "  Well,  you  see,  all  the  boys 
made  little  water-mills  to  be  run  by  the  force  of  the 
stream.  We  call  them  'flutter-wheels.'  But  I  made 
one  so  curious  that  it  beat  them  all,"  he  said. 

"  Show  it  to  me,  Davie,"  she  said.  And  David 
explained  it  to  her,  forgetting  all  about  his  unhappi- 
ness  in  the  pleasure  of  showing  the  little  cog-wheels, 
and  the  under-shot  wheel  that  drove  it.  "  And  why 
did  you  want  to  break  it  up  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Because, 
mother,  Sam  Peters  said  that  I  should  never  be  good 
for  any  thing  but  to  make  flutter-wheels,  and  it  is  true. 


The  Story  of  a  Flutter-wheel.  95 

I  am  afraid."  "  If  you  were  a  poor  man's  son,  Davie, 
you  might  be  a  good  mechanic,"  said  his  mother. 

That  night  Davie  resolved  to  be  a  mechanic.  "  I 
won't  be  a  good-for-nothing  man  in  the  world.  If  I 
can't  be  a  learned  professor,  I  may  be  a  good  car- 
penter or  a  blacksmith.  If  I  learn  to  make  a  good 
horse-shoe,  I'll  be  worth  something."  So  the  next 
morning  he  asked  his  father's  leave  to  enter  a  ma- 
chine shop.  His  father  said  he  might,  and  with  all 
the  school-boys  laughing  at  him,  he  took  his  tin-pail 
with  his  lunch  in  it,  and  went  into  the  shop  each 
morning.  And  now  he  began  to  love  books,  too. 
He  gathered  a  library  of  works  on  mechanics. 
Every  thing  relating  to  machinery  he  studied.  He 
took  up  mathematics  and  succeeded.  After  a  while 
he  rose  to  a  good  position  in  the  shop.  And  he  be- 
came at  last  a  great  railroad  engineer.  He  built 
that  great  bridge  at  Blankville. 

"Why,"  said  John  Harlan,  "  I  thought  your  Un- 
cle David  built  that." 

"  So  he  did/'  said  Harry.  "  My  uncle  was  the  boy 
that  could  not  learn  Latin.  But  he  wasn't  above 
honest  work,  and  he  tried  to  be  useful." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Tom  Miller,  "  that  God  has  use 
for   us  all,  boys.     Perhaps  Jimmy's  father  was  as 


96  The  Cellar  Door  Club, 

much  intended  to  serve  God  making  shoes  as  mine 
in  preaching  the  Gospel.  What  a  mistake  it  must 
be  to  get  into  the  wrong  place,  though." 

"The  m-m-meeting's  adjourned,"  said  the  Presi- 
dent. "Jimmy  Jackson  will  be  the  sp-speaker  at  the 
n-next  m-m -meeting  of  the  cellar-d-door-s-society." 


11. 

THE  wood-chopper's  CHILDREN. 

THE  next  Friday  evening  found  all  the  members 
of  the  Cellar-door-club  in  their  places.  Will 
Sampson,  the  stammering  "  chairman,"  was  at  the  top, 
full  of  life  and  fun  as  ever.  Jimmy  Jackson,  running 
over  with  mischief,  was  by  him,  then  came  Tom  Miller 
and  John  Harlan,  while  Hans  Schlegel  and  Harry 
Wilson  sat  at  the  bottom.  After  a  half  hour  spent  in 
general  talk  about  school  and  plays,  and  such  mis- 
cellaneous topics  as  every  gathering  of  boys  knows 
how  to  discuss,  the  "  chairman  "  called  out, 

"Come  t-to  order!  Th-th-the  C-cellar-d-d-door 
society  is  c-called  to  order.  G-g-gentlemen,  the  Hon. 
J-Jeems  Jackson  is  the  speaker  f-for  the  evening.  I 
h-have  the  pl-pleasure  of  introducing  him  to  you." 

"  No,  you  don't !  "  said  the  shoemaker's  son ;  "  don't 
put  it  on  so  thick.  If  you  want  me  to  tell  my  yarn 
along  with  the  rest  of  you,  why,  I'm  ready,  but  if  you 
call  it  a  speech,  you  scare  me  out  of  my  shoes,  just 


9^  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

like  the  man  that  tried  to  make  a  speech  in  the  leg- 
islature, but  couldn't  get  any  farther  than  ^  Mr.  Speak- 
er, I  am  in  favor  of  cart-wheels  and  temperance.' 
Or,  like  a  boy  I  knew,  who  tried  to  declaim  the  speech 
beginning:  ^Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  lend  me 
your  ears  ! '  and  who  got  so  badly  confused  on  the 
first  line  that  he  said,  '  I'd  like  to  borrow  your  ears ! '  " 

This  raised  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  Harry  Wil- 
son, who  had  broken  down  on  that  line,  though  he 
did  not  make  it  as  bad  as  Jimmy  represented  it. 

"  G-g-go  on  with  your  story !  "  stammered  the  chair- 
man, and  Jackson  proceeded. 

JIMMY  Jackson's  story. 
There  lived  in  a  country  a  long  way  off  —  it  don't 
matter  where  —  a  poor  wood-chopper  whose  name 
was  —  let's  see  —  well,  we  will  call  him  Bertram.  It 
wasn't  the  fashion  to  have  two  names  in  those  days, 
you  know ;  people  couldn't  afford  it.  He  had  a  son, 
whose  name  was  Rudolph,  and  a  daughter,  Theresa. 
The  boy  was  twelve  and  the  girl  was  eleven  years 
old.  The  wood-chopper  earned  but  a  scanty  sub- 
sistence, —  that  means  a  poor  living,  I  believe,  —  and 
the  children  soon  learned  to  help  him.  Rudolph  and 
Theresa  were  hard-working  and  cheerful,  and  as  they 


The  Wood-chopper' s  Children.  99 

had  never  been  rich,  they  did  not  know  what  it  was 
to  be  poor.  That  is,  they  thought  they  had  plenty, 
because  they  never  had  any  more  j  and  had  no  time 
to  sit  down  and  see  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  a 
fine  house,  and  be  drawn  in  an  elegant  carriage. 
But  one  day  a  tree  fell  on  poor  Bertram,  and  he  was 
carried  home  with  a  broken  arm  and  leg.  I  suppose 
if  he  had  been  rich  enough  to  send  for  a  great  sur- 
geon that  lived  in  the  city,  only  two  leagues  away,  he 
would  have  recovered  without  much  trouble,  but  poor 
men  have  to  do  without  such  attentions,  and  so  poor 
Bertram's  arm  and  leg  were  so  crooked  that  he  could 
not  work.  And  now  the  burden  fell  heavily  on  the 
poor  wife,  who  had  to  gather  berries  and  nuts  in  the 
forests,  which  she  loaded  on  the  donkey,  and  carried 
away  to  the  city  to  sell.  But  the  poor  woman  was 
never  very  strong,  and  this  extra  tax  was  fast  break- 
ing her  down. 

The  children  did  what  they  could,  but  it  was  not 
much.  After  working  hard  all  day,  they  amused 
themselves  in  the  evening  by  manufacturing  little 
articles  out  of  nut  shells.  Rudolph  had  a  sharp  knife 
which  had  been  given  him  for  showing  a  gentleman 
the  way  out  of  the  forest.  But  the  circumstances  of 
the  family  had  become  so  distressing  that  they  had 


lOO  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

given  up  their  evening  employments,  creeping  sadly 
away  to  bed  after  a  frugal  supper. 

One  day,  as  they  were  gathering  nuts  in  the  forest, 
Rudolph  said,  "  Sister,  I  fear  that  mother  is  break- 
ing down.  What  can  we  do  to  help  her  ?  The  win- 
ter is  coming  on,  and  times  will  be  harder  than  ever." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Rudolph,"  answered  Theresa  ; 
"  why  can't  we  do  something  with  your  little  nut-bas- 
kets and  nut-boats?  I've  heard  say  that  the  little  city 
children,  who  wear  fine  clothes  and  have  plenty  of 
money,  are  very  fond  of  such  things.  Let  us  send 
all  you  have  by  mother  to-morrow." 

And  so  on  the  next  morning  the  mother's  basket 
took  the  whole  stock.  When  evening  came  the  chil- 
dren walked  a  quarter  of  a  league  down  to  the  cross- 
ing of  the  brook  to  meet  her,  and  hear  the  fate  of 
their  venture.  But  the  poor  woman  could  only  tell 
them  that  the  work  was  admired,  but  that  she  had 
not  succeeded  in  selling  any  of  it.  That  night  they 
went  to  bed  more  than  ever  disheartened.  The  next 
day,  their  mother  carried  their  trinkets  to  town  again, 
and  when  she  returned  they  were  delighted  to  know 
that  some  of  them  had  sold  for  a  few  pence,  and  that 
a  lady  had  sent  an  order  for  some  mosses  to  make  a 
moss-basket  with. 


The  Wood-chopper's  Children,  loi 

"We'll  make  the  basket  ourselves,"  exclaimed  Ru- 
dolph, and  the  next  day  they  gathered  the  mosses, 
and  Rudolph  and  his  sister  worked  nearly  all  night 
framing  a  basket  of  twigs,  and  fitting  in  the  different 
colored  mosses.  What  was  their  delight  when  they 
learned  that  the  lady  had  paid  a  good  price  for  the 
basket. 

It  was  still  up-hill  work  to  live.  Sometimes  the 
trinkets  sold  and  sometimes  they  did  not.  But  Ru- 
dolph kept  whitding  away,  and  his  sister  soon  be- 
came a  good  whittler,  too.  Besides,  she  often  sewed 
little  pin-cushions  in  the  nut-shells,  and  did  other 
things  by  which  her  little  brown  fingers  were  quite 
as  useful  as  Rudolph's.  But  often  they  were  discour- 
aged by  complete  failure  to  sell. 

There  was  a  fair  to  take  place  some  time  later,  and 
Rudolph  and  Theresa  worked  hard  making  swinging 
baskets  and  nut-shell  boats  for  the  fair.  And  as 
the  poor  mother  was  fairly  broken  down,  and  could 
not  go  to  the  city,  they  had  not  to  pick  berries,  but 
could  spend  all  their  time  making  their  little  articles. 
They  even  made  little  faces  out  of  the  nut-shells. 
At  last  came  the  day  of  the  fair ;  and,  alas !  the  poor 
mother  was  still  sick,  while  the  father  was  not  able 
to  move  out  of  his  chair  for  rheumatism.     This  was 


I02  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

a  sad  disappointment,  but  Rudolph  had  often  been 
to  the  city  with  his  mother,  and  he  resolved  to  take 
Theresa  and  go  himself.  As  the  food  was  out.  the 
parents  could  not  refuse,  and  the  two  children 
climbed  up  on  the  donkey  and  set  out.  It  was  a 
wearisome  and  anxious  day  to  the  parents.  At  last, 
when  evening  came,  there  came  no  returning  chil- 
dren. But  an  hour  after  dark  the  donkey  stopped 
before  the  door,  and  Rudolph  and  his  sister  came 
joyfully  in  to  tell  the  day's  adventures.  Very  happy 
were  the  parents  to  learn  of  their  complete  success. 
And  now  the  children  went  regularly  to  the  weekly 
markets  or  fairs,  and  had  a  stall  of  their  own.  Their 
constant  whittling  made  them  more  and  more  skilful, 
and  their  frinkets  were  soon  much  sought  after. 
They  were  able  to  buy  a  little  gold  and  silver,  and 
soon  learned  to  inlay  their  nut-shell  snuff-boxes  and 
wooden  jewel-cases,  so  as  to  make  them  very  beau- 
tiful. And  as  the  wood-chopper  grew  better  he  was 
able  to  do  the  rougher  work  of  preparing  the  wood 
for  them.  And  the  money  they  realized  was  more 
than  the  wood-chopper  was  ever  able  to  make  in  his 
best  days.  After  a  while  some  wood-carver's  tools 
helped  Rudolph  to  do  still  more  curious  work.  And 
he  now  has  a  shop  in  town.     Theresa  prepares  his 


The  Wood-chopper's  Childreft,  103 

drawings  and  patterns  for  him,  and  does  the  staining 
and  moss-work,  and  the  firm  is  always  known  as  The 
Wood  Chopper's  Children.  If  anybody  wants  a 
moral  to  the  story  they  can  furnish  it  themselves. 

"  I  suppose  the  moral  is,  that  everybody  can  do 
something  if  he  tries,"  said  Miller. 

"  I  s-s-suppose  it's  b-b-bed-time,"  said  the  chair- 
man, and  the  boys  adjourned. 


III. 


THE  BOUND  BOY. 


ON  the  third  Friday  evening  the  boys  came 
together  in  some  uncertainty  in  regard  to  who 
was  to  be  the  story-teller.  But  Will  Sampson,  the 
stammering  president  of  the  club,  had  taken  care 
to  notify  John  Harlan,  the  widow's  son,  that  he 
was  to  tell  the  story.  If  there  was  any  general 
favorite  it  was  John  ;  for  while  his  poverty  excited 
the  sympathy  of  all,  his  manliness  and  generous- 
ness  of  heart  made  everybody  his  friend,  and  so, 
when  Sampson  got  the  boys  quiet,  he  announced: 
''  G-g-gentlemen  of  the  order  of  the  c-c-cellar-door, 
the  story-teller  for  th-the  evening  is  our  friend  Har- 
lan. P-p-please  c-come  forward  to  the  t-top,  Mr. 
Harlan." 

"  I  say,  Hurrah  for  Harlan  1  '^  said  Harry  Wilson, 
and  the  boys  gave  a  cheer. 

"  Give  us  a  good  one,  John,"  said  mischievous 
Jimmy  Jackson. 


The  Bound  Boy.  -105 

"  Order !  '^  said  the  chairman.  "  Mr.  Harlan  has 
the  fl-floor,  —  the  c-c-cellar-door,  I  mean.  Be  q-quiet, 
J-J-Jackson,  or  I'll  reprimand  you  severely.'' 

"  I'm  perfectly  quiet,"  said  Jackson.  "  Haven't 
spoken  a  word  for  an  hour." 

JOHN  Harlan's  story. 

Well,  boys,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  do  better 
than  tell  you  the  story  of  one  of  my  mother's  old 
school-metes.      His  name  was  Samuel   Tomkins  — 

"  Couldn't  you  give  your  hero  a  prettier  name  ? " 
said  Jackson;  but  the  president  said  "  order,"  and 
the  story  went  on. 

He  lived  in  one  of  the  counties  bordering  on  the 
Ohio  river.  It  was  a  rough  log  cabin  in  which  his 
early  life  was  passed.  He  learned  to  walk  on  an 
uneven  puncheon  floor ;  the  walls  were  "  chinked  " 
with  buckeye  sticks,  and  the  cracks  daubed  with 
clay,  and  a  barrel,  with  both  ends  knocked  out, 
finished  off  the  top.  His  father  had  emigrated  from 
Pennsylvania,  and  was  what  they  call  in  that  country 
a  "poor  manager."  He  never  got  on  well,  but  eked 
out  a  living  by  doing  day's  works,  and  hunting  and 
fishing.  But  Samuel's  mother  was  a  woman  of  edu- 
cation, and  had  just  given   him  a  good   start,   when 


io6  The  Cellar  Door  Club, 

she  died.  He  was  then  but  eight  years  of  age.  A 
few  months  later  his  father  died  of  a  congestive  chill, 
and  little  Sammy  was  thrown  on  the  world.  He 
was  indentured  to  old  Squire  Higgins.  The  Squire 
was  a  hard  master;  and  in  those  days  a  bound  boy 
was  not  much  better  off  than  a  slave,  any  how.  Up 
early  in  the  morning  "  doing  chores,"  running .  all 
day,  and  bringing  the  cows  from  the  pasture  in  the 
evening,  he  was  kept  always  busy.  The  terms  of  his 
indenture  obligated  the  Squire  to  send  him  to  school 
three  months  in  the  winter;  and  it  was  a  delightful 
time  to  him  when  he  took  his  seat  on  the  backless 
benches  of  the  old  log  school-house,  with  its  one 
window,  and  that  a  long  low  one,  and  its  wide  old 
fireplace.  He  learned  to  "read,  write,  and 
cypher  "  very  fast.  And  in  the  summer  time,  when 
he  was  employed  in  throwing  clods  off  the  corn  after 
the  plough,  he  had  only  to  go  once  across  the  field 
while  the  plough  went  twice.  By  hurrying,  he  could 
get  considerable  time  to  wait  at  each  alternate  row. 
This  time  he  spent  in  studying.  He  hid  away  his 
book  in  the  fence-corner,  and  by  concealing  himself 
a  few  minutes  in  the  weeds  while  he  waited  for  the 
plough,  he  could  manage  to  learn  something  in  a 
day. 


The  Bound  Boy.  lo? 

After  he  grew  larger  the  Squire  failed  to  send  him 
to  school.  When  asked  about  it,  he  said,  "Wal,  I 
'low  he  knows  a  good  deal  more'n  I  do  now,  an' 
'taint  no  sort  o'  use  to  learn  so  much.  Spiles  a  boy  to 
fill  him  shock  full."  But  Sammy  was  bent  on  learn- 
ing, any  how ;  and  in  the  long  winter  mornings,  before 
day,  he  used  to  study  hard  at  such  books  as  he  could 
get. 

"  I  never  seed  sich  a  chap,"  old  Mrs.  Higgins  would 
say.  "  He  got  a  invite  to  a  party  last  week,  and  my 
old  man  tole  him  as  how  he  mout  go ;  but,  d'ye  b'lieve 
it?  he  jist  sot  right  down  thar,  in  that  air  chimney- 
corner,  and  didn't  do  nothin'  but  steddy  an'  steddy  all 
the  whole  blessed  time,  wdiile  all  the  other  youngsters 
wuz  a  frolickin'.     It  beats  me  all  holler." 

But  the  next  winter  poor  Sam  had  a  hard  time  of  it. 
The  new  school-master,  who  was  hired  because  he  was 
cheap,  knew  very  little  ;  and  when  Sam  got  into  trou- 
ble with  his  ^*sums,"  and  asked  the  school-master 
about  them,  he  answered,  "Wal,  now,  Sam,  I  hain't 
cyphered  no  furder  'n  '  reduction,'  and  I  can't  tell  you. 
But  they's  a  preacher  over  in  Johnsonville  a-preachin' 
and  a  teachin'  school.  He  is  a  reg'lar  college  feller, 
and  I  reckon  he  knows  single  and  double  rule  of  three, 
and  all  the  rest." 


io8  The  Cellar  Door  Club, 

Sam  coaxed  the  Squire  to  let  him  have  old  "  Blaze- 
face,"  the  blind  mare,  to  ride  to  Johnsonville,  three 
miles  off,  the  next  mO'rning,  if  he  would  promise  to  be 
back  "on  time  to  begin  shuckin'  corn  bright  and 
airly."  And  before  six  o'clock  he  hitched  old  Blaze  in 
front  of  "  Preacher  Brown's "  door.  When  he 
knocked,  Mr.  Brown  was  making  a  fire  in  the  stove, 
and  he  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  a  boy  by  the 
door  in  patched  blue-jeans  pantaloons  that  were  too 
short,  and  a  well-worn  "round-a  bout  "  that  was  too 
tight.  He  looked  at  the  boy's  old  arithmetic  and 
slate  in  surprise. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Sam,  "  I'm  Squire  Hig- 
gins'  bound  boy.  I  want  to  learn  somethin',  but  I 
can't  go  to  school ;  and  if  I  could,  'twouldn't  amount 
to  much,  because  the  master  don't  know  as  much  as 
I  do,  even.  I  got  stalled  on  a  sum  in  cube  root,  an' 
I  come  down  here  to  get  you  to  help  me  out,  for  I'm 
bound  to  know  how  to  do  every  thing  there  is  in  the 
old  book  j  and  I've  got  to  be  back  to  begin  work  in 
an  hour." 

The  minister  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  sat 
down  cheerfully,  and  soon  put  daylight  through  the 
*•'  sum."  Then  Sam  got  up,  and  feeling  down  in  the 
bottom  of  his  pocket,  he  took  out  a  quarter  of  a  dol- 


The  Bound  Boy,  109 

lar.  "  Would  that  pay  you,  sir  ?  It^s  all  I've  got, 
and  all  I  will  get  in  a  year,  I  guess.  I  hope  it's 
enough." 

"  Keep  it !  keep  it !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  brushing 
away  the  tears ;  "  God  bless  you,  my  boy,  we  don't 
charge  for  such  work  as  that.  I'd  like  to  lend  you 
this  History  of  England  to  read.  And  come  over 
any  evening,  and  I'll  help  you,  my  brave  fellow." 

One  evening  in  every  week  the  bound  boy  rode 
old  Blaze  over  to  the  minister's  house,  and  rode 
back  after  eleven  o'clock,  for  he  and  the  parson 
came  to  be  great  friends.  The  next  year  Mr.  Brown 
threatened  the  old  Squire  wdth  the  law  for  his  viola- 
tion of  his  part  of  the  terms  of  the  indenture,  and 
forced  him  to  release  Sam,  who  was  eighteen  now, 
from  any  further  service.     He  dug  his  way  through 

college,  and  is  now  Professor  of  Mathematics  in • 

University.  The  old  Squire,  when  he  hears  of  Pro- 
fessor Tomkins'  success,  always  chuckles,  and  says, 
"  You  don't  say,  now !  Wal,  he  used  to  feed  my 
hogs." 

"We'll  adj-j-journ  with  three  cheers  for  Harlan," 
said  Sampson.     And  they  gave  them. 


IV. 


THE   PROFLIGATE   PRINCE. 


FRIDAY  evening  next  after  the  one  on 
which  John  Harlan  told  his  story,  it  rained; 
so  the  club  did  not  meet.  But  they  came  to- 
gether on  the  following  Friday  evening,  and  it  was 
decided  that  Hans  Schlegel  should  tell  the  story. 

"  Come,  Schlegel,"  said  Harlan,  "  you  must  know 
a  good  many,  for  you  are  always  studying  big  Ger- 
man books.  Tell  us  one  of  the  stories  that  .those  old 
German  fellows,  with  jaw-breaking  names,  have  to 
tell." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jackson,  "  tell  us  about  Herr  Johan- 
nes Wilhelm  Frederich  Von  Schmitzswartsschriekel- 
versamanarbeitfrelinghuysen  !  " 

Jimmy's  good  natured  raillery  raised  a  hearty 
laugh,  and  Hans  joined  in  with  great  gusto. 

"  I  think,"  said  Harry  Wilson,  '''  Schlegel  can 
make  a  better  story  than  any  of  those  old  fellows, 
whose  names  take  away  your  breath  when  you  pro- 
nounce them.     Tell  us  one  of  your  own,  Hans." 


The  Profligate  Prince.  m 

"  D-d-d-do  just  as  you  p-p-please,  Sch-sch  — " 
but  the  stammering  chairman  fairly  broke  down  in 
trying  to  pronounce  the  name,  and  the  boys  all  had 
another  laugh. 

''  Really,  gentlemen,"  said  Schlegel,  "  I  should 
be  delighted  to  please  you,  but  as  you  have  asked  me 
to  tell  you  a  story  that  I've  read  in  German,  and  to 
tell  you  one  of  my  own  make,  and  to  do  just  as  I 
please,  I  fear  I  shall  be  like  the  man  who  tried  first 
to  ride,  and  then  to  carry  his  donkey  to  please  the 
crowd.  But,  I  think  I  can  fulfil  all  three  requests. 
I  read  a  story  in  Krummacher  some  time  ago,  and  I 
have  partly  forgotten  it.  Now,  if  I  tell  you  this 
story,  partly  translating  from  the  German  as  I 
remember  it,  and  partly  filling  up  the  story  myself,  I 
shall  do  as  I  please,  and  gratify  you  all." 

"  Good,"  said  Jackson ;  "  takes  Schlegel  to  make 
a  nice  distinction.     Go  on  with  the  story." 

THE    STORY. 

Hagael  was  the  name  of  the  son  of  an  oriental 
prince.  He  was  carefully  educated  by  command  of 
his  father,  and  grew  up  in  the  valley  of  the  wise  men. 
What  that  is,  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  Herr  Krum- 
macher did  not  deign  to  tell  me.     At  last,  when  he 


112  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

came  to  be  a  young  man,  his  father  thought  best  to 
have  him  travel,  that  he  might  know  something  of 
other  people  besides  his  own.  For  people  who  stay 
at  home  always,  are  apt  to  think  every  thing  strange 
that  differs  from  what  they  have  been  accustomed  to. 
Thus  it  is  that  English-speaking  people,  where  knowl- 
edge is  limited,  think  that  German  names  _  are 
uncouth,  when  it  is  only  the  narrowness  of  their  own 
culture  that  makes  them  seem  so.  (The  boys  all 
laughed  at  Hans'  good-natured  hit ) 

Now,  in  the  country  in  which  Hagael  lived,  they 
didn't  send  young  men  to  Europe,  as  we  do,  to 
complete  their  education  by  travelling  at  lightning 
speed  over  two  or  three  countries,  and  then  coming 
back  to  talk  of  their  travels.  But  in  that  country, 
they  sent  them  to  Persia  to  live  awhile,  that  they 
might  study  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  people. 
So  Hagael  came  into  Persia.  He  was  allowed  every 
liberty,  but  his  old  tutor,  Serujah,  followed  him 
without  his  knowledge,  and  watched  his  course. 

When  Hagael  reached  the  great  city,  he  was 
dazzled  with  its  splendors.  The  signs  of  wealth,  the 
excitements  of  pleasure,  and  the  influence  of  compan- 
ions were  too  much  for  him.  He  saw  the  crowds  of 
pleasure-seekers,  he  was  intoxicated  with  music,  he 


The  Profligate  Prince,  113 

was  charmed  with  the  beauty  and  conversation  of 
giddy  women.  He  forgot  all  the  lessons  of  Serujah. 
He  forgot  all  his  noble  resolutions.  Days  and  nights 
were  spent  in  pleasure  and  dissipation.  In  vain 
Serujah  looked  for  any  signs  of  amendment.  He 
was  a  "fast"  young  man,  fast  because  he  was 
going  down  hill. 

One  day,  as  he  wandered  in  the  pleasure  gardens 
of  Ispahan  with  his  dissolute  companions,  he  beheld 
his  old  master,  Serujah,  dressed  as  a  pilgrim,  with 
staff  in  hand,  hurrying  past  him.  "  Whence  come 
you,  and  whither  do  you  journey?"  cried  out  the 
young  prince  to  Serujah.  "I  do  not  know  where  I 
am  going,"  answered  Serujah.  "  What ! "  said 
Hagael,  in  astonishment,  "  have  you  left  home  and 
gone  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  yet  do  not  know  where 
you  are  going?"  "Oh,  yes,"  said  Serujah,  "I  just 
go  here  and  there,  taking  the  road  that  seems  to  be 
the  pleasantest,  or  that  suits  my  fancy."  "  But 
where  will  you  bring  up  at  this  rate?  Where  will 
such  travelling  lead  you  ?  "  asked  Hagael.  "  I  do  not 
know.     That  matters  not  to  me,"  said  the  wise  man. 

Then  Hagael  turned  to  his  companion  and  said, 
"  See  !  this  man  was  once  full  of  wisdom.  He  was 
the  guide  of  my  youth.     But  his  reason  has  departed, 


114  ^^^  Cellar  Door  Club, 

and  now,  poor  lunatic,  he  is  wandering  over  the 
earth  not  knowing  where  he  is  going.  How  has  the 
wise  man  become  a  fool." 

Serujah  came  up  to  the  young  prince,  and  taking 
his  knapsack  from  his  back  threw  it  upon  the  ground. 
"  You  have  spoken  rightly,"  he  said.  "  Hagael,  I 
once  led  you,  and  you  followed  me.  Now,  I  follow 
where  you  lead.  I  have  lost  my  road,  and  forgotten 
where  I  am  going.  So  have  you.  You  set  me  the 
example.  You  are  wandering  round  wthout  pur- 
pose. Which  is  the  greater  fool,  you  or  I  ?  I  have 
forgotten  my  destination.  You  have  forgotten  your 
high  duties  as  a  prince,  and  your  manhood." 

Thus  spoke  the  wise  man,  and  Hagael  saw  his 
folly.  Boys,  my  story  is  done.  May  we  none  of  us 
lose  our  road,  or  forget  where  we  are  going. 

The  boys  felt  a  little  serious  over  this,  and  broke 
up  with  less  joking  than  usual. 


V. 

THE   YOUNG  SOAP-BOILER. 

IT  was  a  mild  evening  in  the  early  fall,  when 
the  boys  got  together  for  the  next  story, 
which  of  course  fell  to  the  lot  of  Tom  Miller,  the 
minister's  son,  whom  the  boys  familiarly  called 
"The  Dominie."  No  boy  in  the  cellar-door  club 
was  more  obliging  to  his  friends,  more  forgiving 
to  those  who  injured  him,  than  "  The  Dominie," 
and  none  was  more  generally  loved.  But  Tom  had 
some  strong  opinions  of  his  own.  He  was  a  believer 
in  the  dignity  of  work,  and  when  he  wanted  a  little 
spending  money,  would  take  a  saw  and  cut  wood  on 
the  side-walk,  without  any  regard  to  some  of  the 
stilted  fellows,  who  called  him  wood-sawyer.  He 
was  given  to  helping  his  mother,  and  did  not  mind 
having  the  boys  catch  him  in  the  kitchen  when  his 
mother  was  without  "help."  If  anybody  laughed 
at  him  he  only  replied,  "  There  is  nothing  I  am 
more  proud  of  than  that  I  am  not  afraid  to  be  useful." 


ii6  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

This  independence,  this  utter  contempt  for  the  sneers 
of  others  when  he  was  right,  made  the  boys  look  for 
something  a  little  peculiar  when  Tom  should  come 
to  his  story. 

"G-g-entlemen !  this  c-c-cellar-door  society  will 
come  to  order.     Tom  Miller,  the  dominie  —  " 

"The  wood-sawyer? "  said  Jackson, good-naturedly. 

"  Y-yes,  the  w-wood-sawyer,  the  f-fearless  reformer, 
the  b-b-believer  in  hard  work,  the  bravest  member  of 
the  c-cellar-door  cl-club,  has  the  slanting  floor,  the 
cellar-door  itself,  and  I  hope  he  will  st-st-stand  by 
his  colors,  and  give  us  a  story  that  has  the  meanest 
kind  of  work  in  it,  made  honorable  by  d-d-dig-dig- 
nity of  character."  I  think  Sampson  stammered  a 
little  on  "dig-dig"  just  for  the  fun.  But  the  boys 
all  agreed  to  his  request  and  so  they  heard 

TOM   miller's   story. 

My  story,  boys,  shall  be  what  you  ask.  I  shall 
call  it  "The  Young  Soap-Boiler,"  for  I  suppose 
you'll  admit  that  boiling  soap  is  about  as  unpleasant 
work  as  there  is. 

"Touched  bottom  that  time,"  interposed  Harry 
Wilson. 

Well,  the  boy  that   I'm  going  to   tell  about  was 


The  Young  Soap-boiler,  117 

Dudley  Crawford.  With  a  cheery  eye  and  voice,  a 
quick  eye,  a  quicker  hand  and  a  fleet  foot,  he  was  a 
great  favorite  on  the  play-ground.  If  there  was  a 
weak  boy,  whom  the  others  imposed  upon,  Dudley 
was  always  his  fast  friend,  and  the  mean  fellows  who 
make  up  for  their  cowardice  toward  boys  of  their 
size  by  "picking''  at  little  fellows  or  green  boys, 
had  always  a  wholesome  fear  of  Dudley,  though  I  do 
not  think  he  ever  struck  one  of  them.  But  his  fear- 
less, honest  eye  cowed  them,  and  I  am  sure  he  would 
have  struck  hard  if  it  had  been  necessary  to  protect 
the  poor  little  fellows  who  kept  under  his  wing. 
The  boys  called  them  "  Dud's  chickens." 

There  was  one  boy  in  the  school,  Walter  Whitta- 
ker,  who  had  a  special  desire  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  Dudley.  Walter's  father  had  gotten  rich  during 
the  war,  and  Walter  had  a  special  fondness  for 
being  genteel.  He  wore  gloves,  and  kept  his  boots 
brighter  than  there  was  any  occasion  for.  He  was 
not  much  of  a  scholar,  though  older  than  Dudley. 
But  he  was  fond  of  calling  young  Crawford  his 
friend,  because  Dudley's  father  was  a  rich  and 
talented  lawyer. 

At  last,  there  came  a  financial  crash  that  sent  all 
of   Mr.  Crawford's    half-million    of    dollars  to   the 


ii8  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

winds.  He  was  in  feeble  health  when  it  came,  and 
the  loss  of  his  property  hastened  his  death.  The 
very  same  "  panic  "  left  Whittaker  poor  also.  But 
the  two  boys  took  it  very  differently.  Whittaker 
looked  as  crestfallen  as  if  he  had  committed  a  crime. 
Dudley  mourned  the  loss  of  his  father,  but  held  up 
his  head  bravely  under  the  sudden  poverty.  Whit- 
taker looked  around  for  a  "situation."  But  the 
times  were  hard,  and  situations  were  not  to  be  had. 
Every  clerk  that  could  be  dispensed  with  was  sent 
away,  and  besides,  merchants  do  not  like  to  employ 
a  fellow  who  wears  gloves  and  looks  afraid  of  soiling 
his  hands.  Dudley  had  his  mother  to  support,  and 
looked  about  bravely  for  work.  But  no  work  was 
to  be  had.  He  tried  every  thing,  as  it  seemed, 
until  at  last  he  asked  stern  old  Mr.  Bluff,  who  owned 
half  a  dozen  factories  of  different  kinds. 

"  You  want  work,  do  you,  young  man  ?  I  s'pose 
you  want  to  keep  books  or  suthin'  o'  that  sort.  I 
never  saw  such  a  lot  o'  fellers  askin'  for  work  and 
afraid  to  dirty  their  fingers." 

"  I'll  do  any  honest  work  by  which  I  can  earn  my 
bread,  without  being  dependent  on  friends." 

"  Any  honest  work,  will  you  ?  I'll  make  you  back 
out  of  that  air.     I'll  bet  you  won't  begin  where  I  did." 


The   Young  Soap-boiler.  119 

"  Try  me,  sir,  and  see."       ^ 

"Well,  then,  I'll  give  you  good  wages  to  go  into 
my  soap  factory  next  Monday  morning.  Ha  !  Ha  ! 
that's  honest  work ;  but  fellers  of  your  cloth  don't 
do  that  sort  of  honest  work." 

"/will,  sir." 

Mr.  Bluff  was  utterly  surprised,  but  he  gave  Dudley 
the  situation,  saying  that  he  reckoned  the  smell  of 
soap-grease  would  send  him  out. 

Dudley  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  his  own 
boldness.  But  he  only  told  his  mother  that  he  had 
a  situation  with  Mr.  Bluff,  and  that  he  did  not  know 
the  precise  nature  of  his  duties.  He  was  not 
ashamed  of  his  work,  but  afraid  of  giving  her  pain. 

Monday  morning  he  went  early  to  the  soap  fac- 
tory, stopping  at  the  tailor's  on  the  way,  and  getting 
a  pair  of  blue  overalls  that  he  had  ordered.  It  must 
be  confessed  that  the  smell  of  the  factory  disgusted 
him  at  first,  but  he  soon  became  interested.  He  saw 
that  brains  were  used  in  soap-making.  He  became 
more  and  more  interested  as  he  saw  how  accurate 
some  of  the  chemical  processes  were.  He  soon 
learned  to  cut  the  great  blocks  of  hard  soap  with 
wires;  he  watched  with  eager  interest  the  use  of  col- 
oring matters  in  making  the  mottled  soaps,  and  he 


I20  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

soon  became  so  skilful  that  surly  Mr.  Bluff  pro- 
moted him  to  some  of  the  less  unpleasant  parts  of  the 
work. 

But  there  was  much  talk  about  it  at  first  Some 
of  the  young  ladies  who  had  been  useless  all  their 
lives,  and  who  had  come  to  think  that  uselessness 
was  necessary  to  respectability,  were  "surprised 
that  Dudley  Crawford  should  follow  so  low  a  trade." 
But  those  very  people  never  once  thought  it  disgrace- 
ful in  Walter  Whittaker  to  be  a  genteel  loafer,  living 
off  his  father's  hard-earned  salary,  and  pretending 
that  he  was.  looking  for  a  situation.  And  I  will  not 
be  too  hard  on  Whittaker.  I  think  if  he  could 
have  had  a  situation  in  which  he  could  do  nothing, 
and  be  paid  well  for  it,  he  would  have  been  de- 
lighted. But  he  shunned  Dudley.  Partly  because  he 
was  afraid  of  compromising  his  own  respectability, 
and  partly  because  he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that 
Dudley's  honest  eyes  looked  through  him,  and  saw 
what  a  humbug  he  was. 

After  a  year  Dudley's  father's  estate  was  settled, 
and  owing  to  an  unexpected  rise  in  some  of  the 
property,  it  was  found  that  the  debts  would  all  be 
paid,  and  a  small  balance  be  left  for  the  family.  It 
was   but  a  small  amount,  but  it  enabled   Dudley  to 


The  Young  Soap-boiler,  121 

lay  aside  his  blue  overalls,  and  return  to  the  old 
school  again.  Dr.  Parmlee,  the  principal,  was 
delighted  to  have  such  a  good  pupil  back  again. 
Whittaker  came  back  about  the  saftie  time,  and  the 
very  first  day  he  whispered  to  some  of  the  boys  that 
Dudley  smelled  of  soap-grease.  The  boys  laughed 
thoughtlessly,  as  boys  are  apt  to  do,  and  passed  the 
poor  joke  round.  Dudley  maintained  the  respect  of 
the  school  in  general,  but  there  was  a  small  clique, 
who  never  knew  their  lessons,  but  who  prided  them- 
selves on  being  genteel  dunces.  These  folks  used  to 
talk  about  the  soap-grease,  even  in  Dr.  Parmlee's 
presence  ;  but  the  Doctor  quietly  retorted  that  if 
Crawford's  hands  smelled  of  soap-grease,  that  was 
better  than  to  have  soap-grease  inside  his  head  and 
pomatum  on  the  outside.  They  were  a  little  more 
modest  after  this,  but  they  could  not  forbear  allu- 
sions that  kept  Dudley  under  fire.  His  mother,  who 
was  very  proud  of  her  son's  independence,  could  not 
but  feel  sorry  that  he  was  subject  to  such  perse- 
cutions. "  Ah,  mother,''  he  would  say,  "  the  thing 
that  I  am  proudest  of  in  my  life  is,  that  I  spent  a  year 
in  Bluff's  soap  factory.  Do  not  think  that  I  am 
annoyed  at  the  barkings  of  lap-dogs." 

At  last  came  the  day  of  graduation.     Dudley  lead 


122  21ie  Cellar  Door  Club. 

the  class.  There  was  a  great  crowd  of  fine  people. 
The  last  speech  of  all  on  the  programme  was  "  Hon- 
est Work  Honorable  —  Dudley  Crawford."  With  a 
characteristic  manliness  he  stood  up  bravely  for 
work.  So  fine  were  his  arguments,  so  undaunted  his 
bearing,  that  the  audience  were  carried  away.  Dr. 
Parmlee  took  off  his  spectacles  to  wipe  his  eyes, 
Dudley's  mother  could  not  conceal  her  pleasure. 
"  Franklin's  hands  had  printers'  ink  on  them,"  he 
said,  "but  they  were  shaken  by  princes  and  savans, 
— the  lightning  did  not  despise  them.  Garibaldi's 
fingers  were  soiled  with  candle-grease,  but  they  have 
moulded  a  free  nation.  Stephenson's  fingers  were 
black  with  coal,  and  soiled  with  machine  oil  of  a 
fireman's  work,  but  they  pointed  out  highways  to 
commerce  and  revolutionized  civilization.  There 
are  those  "  (Whittaker  and  his  set  looked  crestfallen 
here  ("who  will  gladly  take  the  hand  of  worthless 
loafers,  or  of  genteel  villains  "  (here  certain  ladies 
looked  down),  "but  who  would  not  have  dared 
shake  hands  with  Franklin,  the  printer,  with  Gari- 
baldi, the  tallow-chandler,  with  Stephenson,  the 
stoker.  But  before  God  and  right-thinking  men 
there  are  no  soiled  hands  but  guilty  hands  or  idle 
ones." 


The  Yotmg  Soap-boiler,  123 

When  he  sat  down,  others  beside  his  mother  shed 
tears,  and  good  Dr.  Parmlee  shook  his  pupil's  hand 
in  sight  of  the  audience,  but  the  applause  was  so 
great  that  nobody  could  hear  what  he  said.  And  the 
next  day  a  note  came  from  the  chief  editor  of  a  lead- 
ing paper,  saying  that  one  who  believed  enough  in 
labor  to  carry  out  his  principles  in  his  life,  would 
make  an  earnest  advocate  of  them.  He  therefore 
tendered  Mr.  Crawford  a  prominent  place  on  the 
editorial  staff  of  his  paper. 

"P-pretty  well  done,  Dominie,"  stammered  Will 
Sampson. 


VI. 

THE  shoemaker's   SECRET. 

ALL  things  have  an  end.  Among  other 
things  that  had  an  end  was  the  fine  sum- 
mer weather.  Many  other  things  came  to  an  end 
with  it.  Grass,  flowers,  and  leaves  came  to 
an  end.  Chirping  of  katydids  came  to  an  end,  and 
chattering  of  swallows  and  songs  of  robins.  (Thus 
does  God  remind  us  that  our  summer  of  life  is  pass- 
ing and  that  we  too  must  come  to  an  end.  Doubt- 
less like  the  flowers  and  the  leaves  we  shall  have  a 
new  life  in  the  spring.)  And  with  the  summer 
ended  the  cellar-door  club,  like  all  other  out-door 
things  that  could  not  stand  the  frost.  The  boys 
understood  that  their  last  meeting  had  come.  But 
Will  Sampson,  the  stammering  chairman,  was  to  tell 
his  story,  and  though  the  cold  evening  made  them 
button  up  their  coats,  they  determined  to  have  one 
more  good  time  together.  And  so  with  many  a 
merry  joke  they  took  their  places  for  what  Jimmy 


The  Shoemaker^ s  Secret  125 

Jackson  called  the  "  inclined  plane  of  social  enjoy- 
ment." Tom  Miller  got  up  under  the  window  and 
called  the  meeting  to  or3er,  announcing  that  Mr. 
Sampson  would  tell  the  story  for  the  evening. 

"I  d-don't  know  about  th-that,"  said  Will. 
"  You  s-s-see,  b-boys,  if  I  tell  it  I  shall  have  to  d-do  it 
b-by  fits  and  starts.  If  you  w-want  a  s-story  told 
straight  ahead,  g-g-get  somebody  whose  tongue  w-will 
w-wag  when  they  want  it  to.  If  you  want  a  y-yarn 
j-j-jerked  out,  I  am  your  man." 

"  We  will  take  it  jerked  or  any  other  way  you 
choose.  Will,"  s-aid  Miller.  "  We  have  had  enough 
sweet-meats,  and  would  not  object  to  gherkins  for  a 
change."  I  want  to  say  just  here  that  patience  and 
self-control  would  have  cured  Sampson  of  his  stam- 
merings. There  is  no  excuse  for  anybody  going 
through  the  world  with  such  a  defect,  when  there 
are  so  many  instances  of  the  victory  of  a  strong  and 
patient  resolution  over  it.  I  shall  give  the  story 
here  as  if  he  had  spoken  it  smoothly. 

WILL  Sampson's  story. 

In  a  country  a  long  way  off  —  I  don't  care  to  tell 
you  the  name  of  it  for  fear  I  should  make  some  mis- 
take in  regard  to  its  geography  or  history  or  manners, 


126  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

and  besides  I  don't  think  it's  anybody's  business  just 
where  a  story  happened  —  in  a  country  a  long  way 
off  —  perhaps  that  country  never  existed,  except  in 
somebody's  head,  who  knows  ?  Besides,  a  country 
that  is  in  your  head  is  just  as  good  as  one  that  is  on 
the  map.  At  least  it's  as  good  for  a  story.  Well, 
in  this  country  there  was  a  village  known  as_  the 
village  of  shoemakers,  because  nearly  all  the  people 
made  shoes.  Peg,  peg,  peg,  could  be  heard  from 
one  end  of  it  to  the  other,  from  morning  till  night. 
It  was  a  perfect  shower  of  hammers.  Into  this  town 
came  one  day  a  peasant  lad  of  twelve  years  of  age, 
with  a  blue  blouse  and  a  queer  red  flannel  cap.  He 
had  travelled  many  a  weary  mile,  and  he  asked  at 
every  shop  that  he  might  learn  the  shoemakers'  trade. 
At  last  he  was  taken  into  the  shop  of  a  hard  master, 
who  was  accustomed  to  beat  his  boys  severely.  But 
when  the  master  went  out,  the  new  boy  in  the  red 
flannel  cap  did  not  throw  bits  of  leather  about  as  the 
rest  did,  but  attended  to  his  work  and  said  nothing, 
even  when  the  leather  was  thrown  at  his  own  red 
cap.  And  somehow  he  always  got  more  work  done 
than  the  rest.  And  the  master  never  beat  Hugo, 
the  boy  in  the  red  flannel  cap.  The  other  boys  said 
it  was  because  of  the  charm  that  he  wore  round  his 


The  Shoemake/s^  Secret,  127 

neck.  For  Hugo  wore  an  old  copper  coin  sus- 
pended like  a  school-boy's  medal.  The  master  paid  a 
little  something  for  extra  work,  and  for  some  reason, 
the  boys  said  on  account  of  his  charm,  Hugo  always 
had  more  than  the  rest.  He  did  not  spend  it,  but 
once  a  year  a  man  with  a  red  flannel  cap  like  Hugo's 
appeared  and  received  all  the  boy's  pay  for  over- 
work, and  then  went  away.  The  boys  made  up  their 
minds  that  Hugo  had  some  sort  of  witchcraft  in  his 
copper  coin.  After  some  years  his  apprenticeship 
expired,  and  Hugo  became  a  journeyman,  working  in 
the  same  quiet  way  and  doing  more  work  than  any 
other  man  in  the  village,  though  he  did  not  work 
any  faster.  Meantime  several  of  his  brothers,  each 
with  the  same  quiet  way,  had  appeared,  and  sat  down 
to  work  in  the  same  shop.  Each  of  them  wore  the 
red  flannel  cap  with  a  tassel,  and  each  of  them  had  a 
copper  coin  about  his  neck.  Hugo  had  disappeared 
for  a  few  days  once,  and  had  brought  back  a  wife. 
His  brothers  lived  in  his  house.  Soon  he  set  up  a 
shop.  As  the  other  shoemakers  were  afraid  of  his 
charm,  he  had  neither  apprentice  nor  journeyman 
except  his  brothers.  Fortunately  there  were  no  less 
than  ten  of  them,  all  with  red  flannel  caps  and  blue 
blouses,  and  wearing  copper  coins  about  their  necks. 


128  The  Cellar  Door  Club. 

But  Hugo's  shop  turned  out  more  than  any  other. 
The  dealers  over  the  border,  when  there  was  an 
order  to  be  quickly  filled,  always  said  "  Send  to 
Hugo,  he  wears  a  charm.'*' 

At  last  there  came  a  war.  The  king  of  the  coun- 
try in  which  the  "  village  of  shoemakers  "  was,  sent 
a  herald  into  the  town,  who  proclaimed  that  if  the 
village  would  furnish  a  certain  number  of  shoes  for 
the  army  by  a  given  day,  the  young  men  should  be 
exempt  from  conscription,  but  that  if  the  village 
failed,  every  man  in  the  town,  young  and  old,  should 
be  marched  off  into  the  army.  There  was  a  great 
cry,  for  the  task  appeared  to  be  an  impossible  one. 
Whether  it  was  a  superstitious  reverence  for  Hugo's 
charm,  or  that  in  trouble  they  naturally  depended 
on  him,  certain  it  is  that  the  crowd  by  common  con- 
sent gathered  before  the  shop-door  of  the  silent  shoe- 
maker in  the  blue  blouse  and  red  flannel  cap.  For 
so  busy  had  Hugo  been  that  he  had  not  heard  the 
herald's  proclamation. 

"  Neighbors,"  said  Hugo,  "  this  is  a  great  waste 
of  time.  We  have  a  very  short  time  to  do  a  great 
work,  and  here  is  one  hour  wasted  already.  Every 
journeyman  and  apprentice  is  here  idle.  Let  every 
one  of  them  return  to  their  benches  and  go  to  work. 


The  Shoemaker's  Secret  129 

Let  the  masters  step  into  my  little  house  here  to  con- 
sult." The  journeymen  hastened  off,  the  masters 
divided  the  work  between  them,  and  Hugo  was  put 
in  charge  of  the  whole  village  as  one  great  shop. 
He  did  not  allow  a  man  to  be  seen  on  the  street. 
He  set  the  women  at  work  doing  such  work  as  they 
could.  He  did  not  allow  a  shop  to  close  until  far 
into  the  night.  But  as  the  last  day  given  by  the 
king  drew  near,  the  masters  were  about  to  give  up, 
for  it  was  found  that  every  shop  was  falling  behind 
its  proportion.  But  Hugo  sternly  told  them  to  hold 
their  men  in  their  places.  When  the  last  night 
came,  he  did  not  allow  a  man  to  sleep.  When  morn- 
ing came  he  made  the  women  count  the  shoes  from 
each  shop,  but  kept  the  men  at  work.  As  the 
accounts  were  made  up,  it  was  found  that  each  shop 
fell  behind.  The  men  quit  work  in  despair  at  last, 
and  women  were  crying  in  the  streets.  Hugo's  shop 
came  last.  It  was  found  that  he  and  his  brothers 
had  made  just  enough  over  their  share  to  make  up 
the  deficiency.  The  whole  village  hailed  him  as 
their  deliverer,  and  everybody  said  that  it  was 
because  of  his  charm. 

When   the   war  was   over  the  king  came  to  the 
village  to  thank  the  shoemakers  for  their  aid.     All 


130  The  Cellar  Door  Club, 

but  Hugo  appeared  before  him.  When  he  heard  of 
Hugo's  conduct  he  sent  for  him.  "  They  tell  me," 
said  the  king,  "  that  you  are  the  man  who  had  the 
required  number  of  shoes  done.  They  say  that  you 
and  your  ten  brothers  wear  charms.  Tell  me  your 
secret." 

Hugo,  holding  his  red  flannel  cap  in  his  hand, 
began :  "  Sire,  when  I  was  a  lad  my  father  had  many 
children.  I  left  my  mountain  home,  and  came  here 
to  earn  something  to  help  support  them.  These  my 
ten  brothers  came  after  me.  When  each  one  left, 
our  good  mother  hung  a  copper  coin  about  his  neck, 
and  said,  ^  Remember  that  you  are  going  to  a  town 
where  there  is  much  idleness  among  the  shoemakers, 
masters,  and  men.  Whenever  you  are  tempted  to  be 
idle  or  to  be  discouraged,  remember  what  I  tell  you, 
KEEP  PEGGING  AWAY ! '  Bchold,  sire,  the  charm  by 
which  we  have  succeeded,  by  which  we  saved  the 
village  from  your  wrath,  and  your  land  from  destruc- 
tion." 

And  after  that  there  might  have  been  seen  in  the 
king's  employ,  in  various  affairs  of  importance,  ten 
men  in  blue  blouses  and  red  flannel  caps,  wearing 
each  a  copper  coin  about  his  neck. 


The  Shoemaker^ s  Secret. 


131 


When  Sampson  had  stammered  his  way  through 
this  story,  the  boys  agreed  to  meet  for  the  winter  in 
Tom  Miller's  house. 


Queer  Stories. 


I. 


THE  CHAIRS   IN   COUNCIL. 


IT  was  a  quiet  autumn  afternoon.  I  was  stretched 
on  a  lounge,  with  a  pile  of  newspapers  for  a 
pillow.  I  do  not  know  that  I  succeeded  in  getting 
any  information  into  my  head  by  putting  newspapers 
under  it.  But  on  this  particular  afternoon  I  was  at- 
tacked by  a  disease  of  the  eyes,  or  rather  of  the  eye- 
lids. They  would  droop.  I  don't  know  by  what 
learned  name  the  doctors  call  this  disease,  but,  as  I 
could  not  read  with  my  eyes  closing  every  second  or 
two,  I  just  tucked  my  newspapers  away  under  my 
head  and  rested  my  eyelids  awhile. 

I  remember  that  there  was  a  hen  cackling  in  the 
barn,  and  a  big  bumble-bee  buzzing  and  bumbling 
around  in  a  consequential  way  among  the  roses 
under  the  window,  and  I  could  hear  the  voices  of 
the  children  in  the  front  yard,  playing  with  their 
dishes. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  had  lain  thus.     But  I 


136  Queer  Stories, 

remember  that  the  cackling  hen  and  the  bumbling 
bee  and  the  laughing  children  seemed  to  get  farther 
and  farther  away,  the  sounds  becoming  less  and  less 
distinct.  All  at  once  the  sewing  chair  that  sat  along 
side  of  me,  with  a  pile  of  magazines  on  it,  began  to 
rock,  and  as  it  rocked  it  moved  off  from  me.  I  felt 
surprised,  and  at  first  thought  of  taking  hold  of  it, 
but  my  arm  seemed  so  tired  that  I  couldn't  move  it. 
And  the  chair  rocked  itself  across  the  floor,  and 
through  the  door  into  the  dining-room.  And  as  I 
looked  after  it,  I  saw  my  old  library  chair  hobble 
into  the  dining-room,  also.  Then  came  the  well- 
cushioned  easy  chair,  puffing  and  panting  good 
naturedly,  as  it  rolled  smoothly  along  on  castors. 
I  was  just  wondering  what  all  this  meant,  when  the 
parlor  door  opened,  and  there  marched  in  a  proces- 
sion of  parlor  chairs,  followed  by  the  plainer  cane- 
seat  ones  from  the  sitting-room.  Next  came  a  sol- 
emn line  of  black,  wooden  kitchen  chairs.  Then  I 
heard  a  commotion  above,  and  the  staid  bedroom 
seats  made  a  fearful  racket  as  they  came  down  the 
steps. 

"  Are  we  all  in  now  ? "  said  the  easy  chair,  blandly. 

A  faint  noise  was  heard  on  the  steps,  and  pres- 
ently in  came  an  old  arm  chair  that  had  belonged  to 


The  Chairs  in  Council.  137 

my  grandmother.  It  had  lain  in  the  garret  covered 
with  spider  webs  for  years,  and  indeed  it  was  quite 
infirm  in  the  joints,  and  must  have  had  a  hard  time 
getting  down  two  flights  of  stairs. 

I  now  tried  to  move,  determined  to  go  and  see 
what  was  the  matter  with  the  furniture,  but  the  tired 
feeling  crept  all  over  me  and  I  lay  still. 

"Well,"  said  the  easy  chair,  who  seemed  to  be 
president,  "  we  are  ready  for  business." 

There  was  a  confused  murmur,  and  the  next  I 
knew  one  of  the  green  rep  parlor  chairs  was  speak- 
ing in  a  very  polished  and  dignified  way  about  the 
grievances  of  parlor  chairs  in  general. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  said  he,  "  to  be  always  shut  up  in 
a  close  room  except  when  there's  company.  There 
are  no  better  looking  chairs  than  we  are.  We  be- 
long to  a  superior  class  of  beings,  and  it  is  trying  to 
one's  nerves  to  lead  so  secluded  a  life  when  one 
wants  to  be  generally  admired.  These  cane-seat 
chairs,  and  those  low,  black,  wooden  fellows  —  " 

"  I  trust  there  will  be  no  personalities,"  said  the 
easy  chair.  "The  kitchen  chairs  are  wooden,  but 
that  is  not  their  fault  j  and  as  to  their  being  black, 
that's*  a  mere  matter  of  paint,  a  mere  matter  of 
paint;"   and   the   easy  chair  shook  his   cushioned 


13^  Queer  Stories, 

sides  as  if  he  thought  this  last  remark  a  piece  of 
exquisite  pleasantry. 

"  I  say/'  continued  Mr.  Green  Rep,  "  I  say  that 
these  common-place  fellows  are  const?intly  admitted 
to  the  society  of  the  family,  and  we,  genteel  as  we 
are,  have  to  live  secluded.  But  for  that  matter  1 
should  rather  be  shut  up  always  than  be  forced  into 
association  with  these  common  cane-seat  and  those 
low,  vulgar,  wooden  —  " 

"  Order  !  "  said  the  easy  chair ;  "  I  must  call  Mr. 
Green  Rep  to  order." 

"Why,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  cane-seats,  "the  inso- 
lence of  that  parlor  fellow  is  insufferable !  He's 
good  for  nothing  but  show.  Nobody  likes  to  use 
him.  He  wasn't  made  for  any  useful  purpose.  Talk 
about  a  thing  being  trying  to  his  nerves  !  Let  him 
have  the  children  use  him  for  a  steamboat  as  they  do 
me!  Let  him  have  some  awkward  fellow  rack  his 
joints  by  sitting  on  him  and  leaning  back  against 
the  wall.  Then  let  him  talk  about  nerves !  It's 
hard  enough,  sir,  to  have  to  be  used  in  that  sort  of 
style  without  being  compelled  to  associate,  as  we 
have  to,  with  those  low,  wooden  fellows,  and  then 
have  to  listen  to  the  abuse  of  that  pampered,  good- 
for-nothing  dandy  in  green  rep,  that  —  " 

I 


The  Chairs  in  Council.  139 

"I  trust,"  said  the  easy  chair,  "that  the  debate 
will  not  proceed  in  this  way.  I  am  sorry  that  so 
much  discontent  is  manifested.  The  life  of  a  chair 
is  certainly  not  altogether  unpleasant;  at  least  1 
have  not  found  it  so." 

"  Sir,"  said  one  of  the  kitchen  chairs,  "  I  know^  I 
am  wooden,  but  I  was  made  so ;  and  I  know  I  am 
black,  but,  as  you  observed  awhile  ago,  that  is  a 
question  of  paint." 

"A  mere  question  of  paint,"  said  the  easy  chair 
again,  evidently  delighted  to  have  his  witticism  quoted. 

"But,  sir,"  continued  the  wooden  chair,  "when  I 
was  new  I  was  not  to  be  laughed  at.  If  I  was  black, 
I  was  varnished  brightly  and  glistened  beautifully  when 
the  chairmaker  set  me  and  my  brothers,  here,  out  in  a 
row  in  the  sun.  And  then,  sir,  we  each  had  a  large 
yellow  rose  on  our  foreheads,  and  I  assure  you  we  were 
beautiful  in  our  own  way,  sir,  in  our  way.  But,  sir, 
you  talk  about  the  life  of  a  chair  not  being  altogether 
unpleasant.  Perhaps  not,  for  an  easy  chair,  so  nicely 
cushioned  as  you  are.  Every  time  our  owner  sits  down 
in  your  arms  she  says,  ^Well,  this  is  just  the  most  com- 
fortable seat  in  the  world  ! '  But  nobody  ever  praises 
me.  If  a  neighbor  drops  in  and  takes  me  or  one  of  my 
fellows,  the  mistress  just  says,  *  don't  take  that  uncom- 


140  Queer  Stories. 

fortable  chair/  and  immediately  offers  one  of  these 
cane-seats.  That's  the  way  we're  insulted,  sir;  and 
when  anybody  wants  a  chair  to  stand  on,  the  mistress 
says,  'take  a  wooden  one.'  Just  see  the  marks  of  John- 
ny's boot  nails  on  me  now,  and  that  scratch,  caused 
by  Bridget's  using  me  and  one  of  my  fellows  to  put 
the  washtub  on  !" 

The  black  chair  subsided  with  the  look  of  ^n  injured 
individual,  and  the  high  chair  commenced  to  complain, 
but  was  interrupted  by  the  sewing  chair,  who  thought 
that  "females  had  some  rights."  She  was  silenced, 
however,  by  my  grandmother's  old  chair,  who  leaned 
on  the  table  while  she  spoke.  The  old  lady  com- 
plained of  the  neglect  of  old  age  by  the  younger  gen- 
eration. 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  the  meeting  was  getting  into 
a  hubbub,  and  bid  fair  to  dissolve  as  unceremoniously 
as  some  ward  political  meetings  do,  my  staid  old  libra- 
ry chair  began  to  talk,  looking  very  learned  at  the  same 
time. 

"Mr.  President,"  said  he,  "I  regret  the  turn  affairs 
have  taken.  The  race  of  chairs  is  a  very  honorable  one. 
A  chair  is  an  insignia  of  honor,  as  I  might  prove  by 
many  eminent  authorities.  When  human  beings  wish 
to  call  some  one  to  the  presidency  of  a  meeting,  they 


The  Chairs  in  Council,  141 

move  that  the  Hon.  Jonathan  Wire-worker  be  called 
to  the  chair.  And  then  they  call  him  the  r/^^/r-man. 
Now  it  is  an  honor  to  be  a  chair,  whether  it  be  a 
parlor  chair,  bottomed  with  green  rep,  or  a  hair-seat 
chair,  or  a  cane-seat  chair,  a  high  chair,  or  a  baby's 
rocking  chair,  or  a  superannuated  chair  in  a  garret,  or 
an  easy-chair,  or  a  wooden-bottomed  chair,  or  a  learned 
library  chair,  like  myself.  I  tell  you,  sir,  it  is  an  honor 
to  be  a  chair.  I  am  proud  of  the  fact  that  I  am  a 
chair.     [Cries  of  hear  1  hear  ! !] 

"And  now,  sir,  we  are  each  adapted  to  our  station. 
What  kind  of  a  kitchen  chair  would  one  of  these  high- 
headed,  green  rep  parlor  gentlemen  make  ?  How  would 
they  stand  washtubs  and  boot  heels  ?  And  what  sort 
of  a  looking  parlor  chair  would  my  friend,  Mr.  Wooden 
Bottom,  be  ?  Even  if  he  were  new,  and  covered  with 
black  varnish,  and  had  a  yellow  rose  on  his  forehead, 
how  would  he  look  among  the  pictures,  and  on  the  nice 
parlor  carpet? 

"  Now  let  us  each  stick  to  our  several  stations,  and  not 
degrade  ourselves  by  learning  the  evil  and  discontented 
habits  of  human  beings,  each  one  of  whom  thinks  his 
lot  the  hardest." 

I  felt  a  little  provoked  at  this  last  remark,  and  was 
going  to  get  up  and  dissolve  the  meeting,  but  the  libra- 


142 


Queer  Stories. 


ry  chair  said  something  about  what  a  glorious  thing  it 
was  to  be  a  chair,  and  then  all  applauded,  green  reps, 
wooden  bottoms,  and  all ;  and  then  every  thing  was  in 
a  whirl,  and  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  the  sewing  chair 
sat  just  as  it  was  at  first,  with  the  pile  of  magazines  on 
it,  and  I  peeped  into  the  parlor,  and  the  green  reps 
were  in  their  places  as  stiff  as  ever.  How  all  got 
back  in  their  places  so  quickly  I  couldn't  tell.  I  went 
into  the  dining-room  and  found  Allegra  perched  on 
the  high  chair,  lashing  two  of  the  cane-seat  ones  that 
were  thrown  down  for  horses. 

And  I  rubbed  my  eyes  again,  —  I  must  have  slept. 


II. 


WHAT  THE  TEA-KETTLE  SAID. 

ABOUT  the  time  the  chairs  had  a  talk  together/ 
I  believe  I  told  you.  Well,  ever  since  that 
time  I  have  been  afflicted,  now  and  then,  with  that 
same  disease  of  the  eyes,  inclining  them  to  close. 
In  fact,  I  am  rather  of  the  opinion  that  the  affliction 
must  be  one  of  the  ear,  too,  for  I  hear  some  curious 
things  while  the  spell  is  on.  Either  that,  or  else 
something  has  "gotten  into  "  the  furniture  about  my 
house.  It  beats  all,  the  time  I  had  the  other  day. 
It  was  a  cold,  wet  October  day,  the  wind  whistled 
through  the  key  holes  and  shook  the  sash  violently, 
while  the  rain  drizzled  wretchedly  against  the  glass. 
As  there  happened  to  be  no  fire  anywhere  else,  I 
took  a  seat  in  the  kitchen.  There  I  sat  in  the  heat 
of  the  cooking-stove,  and  reading,  or  trying  to  read 
Rollin's  Ancient  History.  But  the  book  was  dull, 
and  the  day  was  dull,  and  it  really  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was   duller  than    any  thing   else.     Hannibal  and 


144  Queer  Stories, 

Themistocles,  Spain,  and  Carthage,  and  Rome 
seemed  to  me  the  dullest  things  in  the  world.  I 
wondered  how  people  that  were  so  dull  had  managed 
to  live,  and  how  so  stupid  a  fellow  as  Monsieur  Rol- 
lin  ever  contrived  to  write  so  big  and  dull  a  book. 
It  did  seem  very  dull  in  the  rain,  too,  to  keep  patter- 
ing away  at  the  glass  in  that  stupid  fashion. 

And  so  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  and  watched 
Bridget  fill  the  tea-kettle  and  set  it  over  the  fire. 

"Good  ! "  said  I;  "Bridget,  there's  no  music  on  a 
dull  day  like  the  cheery  singing  of  the  tea-kettle." 

And  Biddy  laughed,  as  she  went  out,  and  I  leaned 
back  again,  and  closed  my  eyes.  All  at  once  I 
heard  a  keen,  piping  voice,  saying, 

"  Hum  —  hum  !  Simmer  !  We'll  soon  have  things 
a-going." 

The  sound  seemed  to  come  up  out  of  the  tea- 
kettle spout.  I  was  so  surprised  that  I  rubbed  my 
eyes  and  looked  around.  There  was  the  tea-kettle, 
but  I  could  hear  no  sound  from  it.  Closing  my 
eyes  again,  I  heard  it  begin, 

"  Simmer,  simmer,  hum,  hum,  now  we'll  have 
things  a-going.  Hot  fire,  this  !  Simmer,  simmer, 
hum,  hum,  simmer.  There's  nothing  like  content- 
ment," it  went  on.     "  But  it's  a  little  hard  to  sit  here 


What  the  Tea-Kettle  Said,  14S 

and  simmer,  simmer,  simmer  forever.  But  I  keep  on 
singing,  and  I  am  happy.  There's  my  sister,  the 
tea-pot.  Bridget  always  keeps  her  bright.  She  goes 
into  the  best  society,  sits  by  the  side  of  the  china 
cups  on  the  tea  tray  that  has  flowers  painted  on  it ; 
vain  little  thing  is  my  sister  tea-pot!  Dreadful 
proud  of  her  graceful  waist.  Thinks  her  crooked 
nose  is  prettier  than  my  straight  one.  She  is  hand- 
some, and  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  feel  proud  of  her  when 
I  see  her  sitting  among  the  china.  But,  la,  me !  of 
what  account  would  she  be  if  I  didn't  help  her? 
I'd  like  to  know  how  they'd  make  tea  without  hot 
water  !  What  would  she  be  good  for,  any  how,  if  I 
didn't  do  the  drudgery  for  her?  This  fire  would 
ruin  her  complexion  ! 

"Whew!  this  is  hot  work." 

The  tea-kettle's  voice  had  grown  higher  and 
higher,  until  she  was  almost  shrieking  by  this  time, 
and  so  she  went  on. 

"  But  then,  I  don't  mean  to  be  proud  or  envious. 
I  mean  to  keep  cheerful.  But  I  do  get  tired  of  stay- 
ing in  the  kitchen,  always  among  the  pots.  I'm  a 
good  singer,  but  the  world  don't  seem  to  appreciate 
my  voice,  and  *  Chicken  Little  '  says  that  I  sing 
through  my  nose. 


146  Queer  Stories. 

"  But  I  wish  I  could  travel  a  little.  There  are  my 
cousins,  the  family  of  steam  boilers.  They  won't 
acknowledge  their  relationship  to  me  any  more. 
But  what  is  that  huge  locomotive,  with  such  a  hor- 
rid voice,  that  goes  puffing  and  screeching  past  here 
every  morning  ?  What  is  he  but  a  great,  big,  black 
tea-kettle  on  wheels  !  I  wish  I  was  on  wheels^  and 
then  I  could  travel,  too.  But  this  old  stove  won't 
budge,  no  matter  how  high  I  get  the  steam. 

"  And  they  do  say  the  tea-kettle  family  is  much 
older  than  the  steam  boiler  family.  But  wouldn't  I 
like  to  travel !  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  start  off  this  old 
stove.    Bridget's  out,  and  the  master's  asleep,  and  — '' 

I  was  just  going  to  tell  the  kettle  I  was  wide 
awake,  but  I  didn't  feel  like  talking,  and  so  the  ket- 
tle went  on. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  good  mind  to  try  it.  Wouldn't  it 
be  a  brilliant  thing,  if  I  could  move  the  old  cooking 
stove?  Wouldn't  Bridget  stare,  when  she  came 
back,  if  she  should  see  the  '  Home  Companion '  run- 
ning off  down  the  railroad  track  ? 

"  Whew  !  I  believe  I'll  burst.  Bridget's  jammed 
the  lid  down  so  tight  I  can't  breathe ! 

"  But  Tm  going  to  try  to  be  a  locomotive.  Here 
goes." 


What  the  Tea-Kettle  Said,  147 

Here  the  kettle  stopped  singing,  and  the  steam 
poured  out  the  spout  and  pushed  up  the  lid,  and  the 
kettle  hissed  and  rattled  and  rattled  and  hissed  so 
that  I  really  was  afraid  it  would  run  off  with  the 
stove.  But  all  its  puffing  was  in  vain.  And  so,  as 
the  fire  began  to  go  down,  the  kettle  commenced  to 
sing  again. 

"  Well,  what  a  fool  I  was  ! 

"  I'm  only  a  tea-kettle ;  I  never  shall  be  anything 
else  j  and  so  there's  the  end  of  it.  It's  my  business 
to  stay  here  and  do  my  duty  in  the  kitchen.  I  sup- 
pose an  industrious,  cheerful  tea-kettle  is  just  as  use- 
ful in  its  place  as  a  steam  engine  ;  yes,  and  just  as 
happy,  too.  And  if  I  must  stay  in  this  kitchen 
among  the  pots  the  rest  of  my  days,  I  mean  to  do 
my  share  to  make  it  the  cheerfulest  kitchen  in  all 
the  country." 

Here  the  voice  of  the  tea-kettle  died  down  to  a 
plaintive  simmer,  simmer,  and  I  heard  Sunbeam 
say,  "  He's  asleep."  She  always  thinks  I'm  asleep 
when  I  rest  my  eyes. 

"  Tea  is  ready,"  said  three  of  them,  at  once. 


III. 

CROOKED  JACK. 

JACK  GRIP  was  a  queer  fellow.  Queer  because 
he  never  got  enough  money,  and  yet  never  seemed 
to  know  the  right  use  of  money.  His  family  had  the 
bare  comforts  of  life,  but  his  wife  was  a  drudge,  and 
his  children  had  neither  books  nor  pictures,  nor  any 
of  those  other  things  so  necessary  to  the  right  educa- 
tion of  children.  Jack  was  yet  young,  but  he  was  in 
great  danger  of  becoming  a  miser.  The  truth  was,  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  get  rich.  It  took  him  some 
time  to  make  up  his  mind  to  be  dishonest,  but  he  was 
in  a  hurry  to  be  rich,  and  lately  he  had  been  what  his 
neighbors  called  "  slippery  "  in  his  dealings.  Poor  Jack  ! 
he  was  selling  his  conscience  for  gold,  but  gold  could 
never  buy  it  back. 

On  a  certain  night  in  November,  the  night  that  my 
story  begins,  Jack  was  not  at  ease.  His  accounts 
showed  that  he  had  made  money.     He  was  getting  rich 


Crooked  Jack.  149 

very  fast,  but  something  troubled  him.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  it  was  ? 

Just  next  to  Jack's  farm  was  a  perfect  beauty  of  a 
little  place,  on  which  lived  the  Widow  Lundy.  Her 
husband  had  bought  the  farm,  and  borrowed  money  of 
Jack  Grip  to  pay  for  it.  It  was  about  half  paid  for 
when  poor  Lundy  was  killed  by  a  falling  tree.  There 
was  some  money  due  him,  and  he  had  a  little  property 
besides,  so  that  the  widow  sent  word  to  Mr.  Grip  that 
if  he  would  only  wait  till  she  could  get  her  means  to- 
gether, she  would  pay  up  the  remainder.  But  times 
were  hard,  and  Jack  saw  a  chance  to  make  two  thou- 
sand dollars  by  forcing  the  sale  of  the  farm  and  buying 
it  himself.  It  just  fitted  on  to  his  lower  field.  It  went 
hard  to  turn  the  widow  out,  but  Jack  Grip  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  would  be  rich.  He  tried  to  make  it  seem 
right,  but  he  couldn't.  He  had  forced  the  sale ;  he 
had  bought  the  place  for  two  thousand  less  than  it  was 
worth. 

The  widow  was  to  move  the  next  morning.  She  had 
little  left,  and  it  was  a  sad  night  in  the  small  brown 
house.  Poor  little  Jane,  only  ten  years  old,  cried  her- 
self to  sleep,  to  think  she  must  leave  her  home,  and 
Hany  was  to  go  to  live  with  an  aunt  until  his  mother 
found  some  way  of  making  a  living.    But  the  good 


150  Queer  Stories, 

woman  did  not  lose  her  trust  in  God.  That  night  she 
knelt  down  between  her  two  children  and  commended 
them  to  the  care  of  Christ.  She  prayed  for  Jack  Grip, 
that  God  would  have  mercy  on  him.  Trusting  in 
Christ,  they  lay  down  houseless  that  night,  for  the  little 
brown  house  belonged  to  hard-hearted  Jack  Grip. 

Poor  Jack  could  not  sleep  and  dare  not  pray.  .  He 
kept  thinking  of  someJ;hing  in  the  Bible  about  "  devour- 
ing widows*  houses."  He  could  not  forget  the  face  of 
an  old  Quaker  who  had  met  him  on  the  road  that  day 
and  said :  "Friend  Jack,  thy  ways  are  crooked  before 
the  Lord  !"  "Yes,"  said  Jack,  "but  my  money  is  as 
straight  as  anybody's,  and  my  farm  is  a  good  deal 
nearer  straight  than  it  was  before  I  bought  the  Lundy 
place."  Jack  could  not  sleep,  however,  for  thinking 
of  the  old  Quaker  and  his  solemn  words.  He  tried  to 
think  that  his  possessions  were  straight  anyhow.  When 
he  did  sleep,  he  dreamed  he  was  the  young  ruler  that 
gave  up  Christ  for  the  sake  of  his  money ;  then  he  was 
the  rich  man  in  torment.  At  last  he  opened  his  eyes, 
and  though  the  sun  was  shining  in  at  the  windows,  he 
thought  things  looked  curious.  The  chairs  were 
crooked,  so  was  the  bedstead.  The  window  was 
crooked,  the  whole  house  seemed  to  be  crooked.  Jack 
got  up,  and  found  he  was  old  and  crooked  himself, 


Crooked  jfack,  151 

The  cat  and  dog  on  the  crooked  hearth  were  crooked. 
There  was  nobody  in  the  house  but  Jack.  He  took  his 
crooked  stick,  and  went  out  through  the  crooked  door, 
down  the  crooked  walk,  among  the  crooked  trees,  along 
the  wall  into  the  crooked  cemetery,  where  were  crooked 
graves  with  the  names  of  his  wife  and  children  over 
them.  As  crooked  Jack,  with  his  crooked  stick,  fol- 
lowed by  his  crooked  dog,  took  his  crooked  way  back, 
he  met  the  old  Quaker,  who  said  again  :  "  Friend  Jack, 
thy  ways  are  very  crooked."  He  went  in  at  the  crooked 
gate,  and  up  the  crooked  walk  among  the  crooked  trees, 
in  at  the  crooked  door,  and  sat  down  on  a  crooked 
chair  by  the  crooked  hearth.  The  crooked  dog  lay 
down  by  him,  and  the  crooked  cat  mewed.  He  opened 
his  crooked  money-box  and  the  gold  coins  were  all 
crooked.  *'Here  I  am,"  said  Jack,  "a  crooked  old 
man  in  a  crooked  old  house,  with  no  friends  but  this 
crooked  old  dog  and  crooked  old  cat.  What  is  all  my 
crooked  money  worth  ?  What  crooked  ways  I  took  to 
get  it." 

Crooked  old  Jack  felt  sick  and  lay  down  upon  his 
crooked  old  bed.  Somehow,  his  crooked  old  money- 
box got  upon  his  breast  and  seemed  to  smother  him, 
Then  his  crooked  ledgers  piled  themselves  upon  him. 
and  it  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  breathe.     He  tried 


152  Queer  Stories, 

to  call  out,  but  his  voice  died  to  a  whisper,  and  the 
only  answer  he  received  was  a  low  growl  from  the 
crooked  old  dog.  Then  the  crooked  old  cat  mewed. 
Poor,  crooked  old  Jack  was  dying ;  and  he  thought  of 
the  Lundy  farm,  and  wondered  if  his  account  on  God's 
book  was  not  very  crooked. 

Just  then  Jack  Grip  awoke,  and  found  that  all  this 
was  a  crooked  dream;  but  the  perspiration  stood  in 
beads  on  his  brow,  and  though  it  was  broad  daylight, 
and  his  wife  and  children  were  about  him,  Jack  thought 
things  were  indeed  crooked.  In  the  first  place,  Jack 
was  sure  that  his  farm  was  crooked  in  the  sight  of  God, 
for  his  new  addition  was  little  better  than  stolen.  His 
home  was  drooked,  for  he  had  not  made  it  a  pleasant 
home.  His  children  were  crooked,  for  he  was  not  edu- 
cating them  right.  And  then  at  bottom,  he  knew 
that  his  own  heart  was  the  crookedest  thing  of  all. 
And  so  he  crept  out  of  bed  and  prayed  God  to  straight- 
en his  crooked  heart. .  The  Lundys  were  all  packed 
ready  to  start  that  morning.  Bitter  were  their  tears. 
But  a  messenger  from  Mr.  Grip  brought  them  a  deed 
to  their  farm,  and  a  note,  saying  that,  as  some  amend 
for  the  trouble  he  had  given  them,  Mrs.  Lundy  would 
please  accept  the  amount  still  due  on  the  farm  as  a 
present. 


Crooked  jfack. 


153 


There  are  many  crooked  people  in  the  world ;  some 
in  one  way,  some  in  another.  Is  your  heart  crooked  ? 
Are  you  growing  more  and  more  crooked  ?  And  when 
you  get  to  be  a  crooked  old  man,  or  a  crooked  old 
woman,  will  your  life  look  crooked  to  you  as  crooked 
Jack's  did  to  him? 


IV. 


THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  OLD  WOMAN. 

LITTLE  Tilda  Tulip  had  two  lips  as  pretty  as 
any  little  girl  might  want.  But  Tilda  Tulip 
tilted  her  two  lips  into  a  pout,  on  a  moment's  notice. 
If  any  thing  went  wrong,  —  and  things  had  a  way  of 
going  wrong  with  her,  —  if  any  thing  went  at  all  wrong, 
she  would  go  wrong,  too,  as  if  it  would  do  any  good 
to  do  wrong.  Some  people  are  always  trying  to  mend 
crooked  things  by  getting  crooked  themselves.  I  never 
heard  that  a  tailor  could  patch  a  pair  of  pants  by  pant- 
ing with  anger,  or  that  a  tinner  could  solder  a  coffee- 
pot by  a  cough  and  a  pout ;  but  there  are  some  little 
girls,  and  not  a  few  big  ones,  that  seem  to  think  the 
quickest  way  of  straightening  a  seam  that  is  puckered 
is  to  pucker  a  face  that  is  straight.  Little  Tilda  Tulip 
was  one  of  that  kind,  —  the  unkind  kind. 

Sometimes  her  friends  would  ask  what  she  would  do 
if  her  face  were  to  freeze  in  frowns,  but  her  Uncle  Jack 
used  to  say  that  she  was  always  too  hot  to  freeze.     But 


The  Funny  Little  Old  Woman,  155 

one  evening  she  came  to  Uncle  Jack  with  the  usual 
frown,  showing  him  her  new  brocade  doll  dress.  She 
had  put  it  away  carelessly,  and  it  was  all  in  "beggars* 
presses." 

"Just  see,  Uncle  Jack,"  she  whined,  "dear  me  !  I 
never  get  any  thing  nice  that  it  isn't  spoiled  somehow 
or  other.  Isn't  that  too  bad  ?  This  dress  has  been 
wrinkled  for  a  week,  and  now  it  will  never  come  smooth 
at  all." 

"That's  bad,  surely,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  "but  there  is 
something  more  than  that.  I  know  something  of  yours 
that  is  finer  than  that  brocade  silk,  that  is  all  in  'beg- 
gars' presses.' " 

"  Why,  no,  Uncle  Jack,  I  haven't  any  thing  so  fine 
as  this,  you  know,  and  now  this  is  all  puckered  and 
wrinkled  and  krinkled,  and  what  will  I  do." 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Uncle  Jack.  "  Do  you 
see  that  skin  ?  There  is  no  silk  so  fine  as  that.  These 
chubby  cheeks  are  covered  with  a  skin  that  is  finer. 
But  you  have  kept  this  skin  puckered  about  your  eyes 
and  your  forehead  and  the  corner  of  your  mouth,  you 
have  kept  it  puckered  and  wrinkled  and  krinkled  as 
you  say,  till  I  am  afraid  it  will  never  be  straight.  I  don't 
think  a  hot  iron  would  smooth  it.     Do  you?  " 

Now  Uncle  Jack  spoke  very  kindly,  indeed.    There 


156  Queer  Stories, 

were  no  wrinkles  in  his  voice.  Some  people  have 
wrinkles  in  their  words.  But  notwithstanding  her  un- 
cle^s  kindness,  naughty  little  Tilda  Tulip  went  off  in  a 
pout,  and  declared  that  Uncle  Jack  was  "  real  mean. 
He  never  feels  sorry  for  a  body  when  they  are  in  trou- 
ble." And  so  she  wrinkled  her  voice  into  a  whine,  and 
wrinkled  and  puckered  her  face  up  most  frightfully. 

At  last,  tired  of  teasing  and  talking  and  troubling, 
Tilda  Tulip  tumbled  into  her  trundle-bed  and  was 
tucked  tightly  in.  Everybody  was  glad  when  she  went 
to  sleep.  Everybody  dreaded  the  time  when  she  should 
wake  up.  She  was  a  good  girl  when  she  was  asleep. 
Never  at  any  other  time. 

She  dreamed.  It  was  a  funny  dream.  I  think  she 
must  have  remembered  what  Uncle  Jack  said,  for  she 
thought  she  saw  a  funny  little  old  house,  by  a  funny  lit- 
tle old  hill,  near  a  funny  little  old  bridge.  Out  of  this 
house  came  a  funny  little  old  woman,  with  a  funny  lit- 
tle old  bonnet,  carrying  a  funny  little  old  bag  on  her 
back,  and  with  a  funny  little  old  cane  in  her  hand.  Her 
face  was  wrinkled  and  cross,  —  wrinkled  all  over,  and 
she  stooped  dreadfully.  But  she  tossed  her  funny  lit- 
tle old  bag  on  to  the  back  of  a  funny  little  old  donkey, 
and  climbed  up  herself.  Then  she  was  cross  with  the 
funny  little  old  bag,  and  mad  with  the  funny  Httle  old 


The  Funny  Little  Old  Woman,  157 

donkey,  and  she  beat  him  with  a  funny  little  old  stick, 
and  scolded  and  scolded  with  a  funny  little  old  cracked, 
quivering,  peevish,  hateful  voice. 

And  so  Tilda  followed  her  as  she  rode,  and  all  the 
rude  boys  along  the  road  cried  out,  "There  goes  the 
funny  little  old  woman  and  her  donkey  ! "  And  a  beau- 
tiful lady  came  along,  and  when  she  met  the  funny  lit- 
tle old  woman,  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  wept,  and 
said,  "O  Miriam,  my  daughter  !  "  But  the  funny  lit- 
tle old  woman  only  beat  her  donkey  and  scolded  more 
than  ever.  And  Tilda  wondered  why  the  beautiful 
woman  called  the  funny  little  old  woman  her  daughter. 
And  Tilda  dreamed  that  many  days  passed,  and  that 
every  day  the  funny  little  old  woman  rode  on  the  funny 
little  old  donkey  to  the  city.  And  every  day  the  beau- 
tiful woman  wept  and  said,  "O  Miriam,  my  daughter  ! " 
One  day  Tilda  approached  the  beautiful  woman  and 
spoke  to  her. 

"  Why  do  you  call  that  funny,  hateful,  little  old  woman 
your  daughter  ?  " 

"  Because  she  is  my  daughter." 
"  But  she  is  so  much  older  than  you  are." 
"  Why,"  said  the  beautiful  woman,  "  don't  you  know 
the  history  of  the  funny  little  old  woman  that  rides  her 
donkey  to  town  every  day?    She  is  my  daughter.    She 


158  Queer  Stories. 

is  not  old ;  but  she  was  a  cross  child.  She  fretted  and 
pouted,  and  scolded  and  screamed.  She  frowned  till 
her  brow  began  to  wrinkle.  I  do  not  know  whether  a 
fairy  enchanted  her  or  not,  but  when  she  became  angry 
there  was  one  wrinkle  that  could  not  be  removed.  The 
next  time  she  was  mad,  another  wrinkle  remained. 
When  she  found  that  the  wrinkles  would  not  come  out 
she  became  mad  at  that,  and  of  course,  every  time  she 
got  mad  there  came  other  wrinkles.  Then,  too,  her 
temper  grew  worse.  Her  once  beautiful  voice  began 
to  sound  like  a  cracked  tin  horn.  The  wrinkles  soon 
covered  her  face ;  then  they  grew  crosswise ;  you  see 
it  is  all  in  beggars'  presses.  She  got  old ;  she  shriv- 
elled up ;  she  stooped  over.  She  became  so  cross  that 
she  spends  most  of  her  time  in  that  funny  little  old 
house,  to  keep  away  from  the  rest  of  us.  She  must 
have  something  to  do,  and  so  she  gets  mad  at  the  stones 
and  breaks  them  up.  She  then  carries  them  to  the 
city  and  throws  them  into  the  river.  She  must  have 
something  to  beat,  and  so  we  let  her  have  this  poor 
donkey,  whose  skin  is  thick.  She  beats  him,  and  thus 
people  are  saved  from  her  ravings.  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  will  ever  come  to  her  senses  or  not.  O 
Miriam,  my  daughter  !  " 

At  last  Tilda  dreamed  that  the  funny,  wrinkled, 


The  Funny  Little  Old  Woman.  159 

cross,  little  old  woman,  got  down  one  day  off  her 
donkey,  poured  the  stones  out  of  the  bag  and  came 
and  sat  down  by  the  beautiful  lady.  Then  the  funny 
little  old  woman  cried.  She  put  her  head  in  the  lap 
of  the  beautiful  lady,  and  said,  "  O  mother,  how 
shall  I  get  these  wrinkles  away? '' 

And  the  beautiful  lady  kissed  her  and  said,  "  Ah ! 
my  daughter,  if  you  will  but  cast  out  the  naughty 
temper  from  your  heart,  as  you  poured  the  stones 
from  the  bag,  I  shall  not  care  for  the  wrinkles." 

The  next  day  Tilda  saw  the  funny  little  old  woman 
feeding  and  petting  the  donkey.  Then  she  saw  her 
carrying  food  to  a  poor  widow.  And  every  time  the 
funny  little  old  woman  did  a  kind  act  there  was  one 
wrinkle  less  on  her  face.  And  then  she  went  into  a 
hospital,  and  she  was  so  kind  to  the  sick  that  they 
all  loved  the  funny  little  old  woman.  And  still  the 
wrinkles  grew  fewer,  and  the  form  grew  straighter, 
and  the  face  grew  fresher,  until  all  the  people  in  the 
hospital  said,  "  Our  funny  little  old  woman  is  really 
getting  younger."  And  younger  and  still  younger 
she  became,  until  the  beautiful  lady  kissed  her  beau- 
tiful Miriam  again,  and  the  music  came  back  into 
her  voice  once  more.  And  Tilda  Tulip  thought  in 
her  dream  that  Miriam  looked  like  herself,  and  that 


i6o  Queer  Stories, 

the  beautiful  lady  seemed  like  her  own  mother. 
And  then  she  waked  up  and  found  it  morning,  for 
she  had  dreamed  all  this  long  dream  in  one  night. 

And  when  she  was  about  to  fly  into  a  passion  with 
her  stockings,  in  dressing,  the  thought  of  the  funny 
little  old  woman  and  her  face  in  beggars'  presses 
kept  her  from  it.  When  she  was  dressed  she  tpld 
uncle  Jack  all  about  the  dream,  and  he  smiled. 

"  Suppose  you  try  the  plan  that  the  funny  little  old 
woman  did,  and  see  if  you  can't  get  rid  of  some  of 
your  wrinkles,"  he  said  to  Tilda. 

"  But  when  I  want  to  be  good  the  naughty  temper 
will  come  out." 

"  Ah ! "  said  uncle  Jack,  "  I'm  much  afraid  the 
wrinkles  are  in  your  heart.  What  if  that  is  all  in 
beggars'  presses,  like  the  funny  little  old  woman's 
face  ? " 

Tilda  Tulip  looked  sad. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  uncle  Jack,  presently; 
"  Let  us  ask  God  to  take  the  wrinkles  out  of  your 
heart,  and  then  see  if  you  can't  get  them  out  of  your 
face." 

And  uncle  Jack  and  Tilda  knelt  down  together, 
atid  he  told  the  dear  Christ  all  about  Tilda's  trouble 
with  her  heart,  and  begged  him  to  help  her.     And 


The  Funny  Little  Old  Woman. 


i6i 


then  he  read  about  the  Syro-Phoenician  woman 
whose  daughter  was  vexed  with  the  devil.  And 
Tilda  had  to  fight  her  temper  as  well  as  to  pray. 
But  I  believe  she  got  all  the  wrinkles  out  at  last. 


WIDOW  WIGGINS'   WONDERFUL  CAT.  ; 

WIDOW  WIGGINS  was  a  wee,  wiry,  weird 
woman,  with  a  wonderful  cat,  —  a  very 
wonderful  cat,  indeed !  The  neighbors  all  said  it 
was  bewitched.  Perhaps  it  was  ;  I  don't  know  ;  but 
a  very  wonderful  cat  it  was.  It  had  a  strange  way  of 
knowing,  when  people  were  talking,  whether  what 
they  said  was  right  or  wrong.  If  people  said  what 
they  ought  not  to  say,  wee  Widow  Wiggins'  wonder- 
ful cat  would  mew.  Perhaps  the  cat  had  lived  so 
long  with  the  wee,  wiry,  weird  widow  woman,  who 
was  one  of  the  best  in  the  world,  that  it  had  gotten 
her  dislike  to  things  that  were  wrong.  But  the  wee 
widow's  neighbors  were  afraid  of  that  cat.  When 
Mrs.  Vine,  a  very  vile,  vinegar-tongued,  vixenish 
virago,  abused  her  neighbors  to  the  wee,  wiry,  weird, 
widow  woman,  the  Widow  Wiggins'  wonderful  cat 
would  mew.  And  so  the  vile,  vixenish  virago  wished 
the  cat  was  dead.     And  when  slender,  slim,  slippery. 


Widow  Wiggins^  Wonderful  Cat.  163 

Sly  Slick,  Esq.,  tried  to  persuade  the  widow  to  swin- 
dle her  neighbor,  the  cat  mewed  furiously.  And  so 
it  came  that  Mr.  Slick  did  not  like  the  wee  widow's 
wonderful  cat.  In  fact,  he  said  it  was  a  nuisance. 
And  Tilda  Tattle,  the  tiresome-tongued,  town  tale- 
bearer, could  not  abide  the  cat,  because  it  mewed 
all  the  time  she  was  tattling. 

And  so  it  happened  that  good  Deacon  Pettibone, 
and  his  wife,  who  was  even  better  than  the  deacon, 
were  about  the  only  visitors  the  wee,  weird.  Widow 
Wiggins  had.  As  the  deacon  never  said  any  harm 
of  anybody,  and  as  the  deacon's  wife  never  thought 
any  harm,  and  as  the  wee  widow  woman  never  felt 
any  harm,  the  cat  would  lie  stretched  out  on  the 
hearth  all  day,  while  these  three  good  people  talked. 

But  though  the  deacon  was  good,  and  his  wife  was 
better,  yet  the  deacon's  oldest  son  was  not  the  boy 
he  ought  to  have  been.  Somehow  or  other,  as  it  will 
happen  sometimes,  he  listened  to  everybody  but  his 
father  and  his  mother.  Bad  company  led  him 
astray.  At  first  the  deacon  did  not  suspect  him ; 
but  when  he  showed  signs  of  having  been  drinking, 
the  deacon  was  very  severe.  I  am  afraid  there  was 
not  enough  of  kindness  in  the  father's  severity.  At 
any  rate,  after  awhile,  Tom  was  told  that  if  he  re- 


164  Queer  Stories. 

peated  the  offence  he  must  go  from  home.  Tom 
had  gotten  to  be  a  hard  boy.  The  deacon  feh 
greatly  provoked.  But  when  a  boy  shows  that  he  is 
not  able  to  overcome  temptation  while  he  is  at  home, 
I  am  not  sure  that  he  will  be  any  better  if  he  is  sent 
by  himself.  I  don't  think  that  helps  it.  But  Tom 
was  bad,  and  so  he  had  no  right  to  complain.  ,  He 
yielded  to  temptation,  and  was  sent  away,  his  father 
telling  him  that  he  should  never  come  back  again. 
Deacon  Pettibone  thought  he  was  doing  right,  but  I 
am  afraid  he  was  angry. 

Well,  when  Tom  got  away  he  did  not  get  any  bet- 
ter. He  went  down  faster.  At  last  his  health 
broke  down.  He  thought  of  home  as  he  walked 
around  hardly  able  to  stand  up.  But  the  deacon 
would  not  ask  him  back,  nor  would  he  encourage 
him  even  by  a  kind  look  to  ask  to  be  taken  back 
again.  The  deacon's  wife  tried  to  persuade  him. 
She  cried.  But  the  deacon  said  he  must  not  break 
his  word.  His  wife  told  him  that  a  rash  word  ought 
to  be  broken  where  it  did  others  harm.  The  dea- 
con's wife  grew  sick,  and  the  vile,  vinegar-tongued, 
vixenish  virago  said  that  the  deacon  was  an  old 
brute.  The  tattling,  tiresome-tongued,  town  tale- 
bearer talked  about  a  good   many  things  that  she 


Widmv  Wiggins'  Woiulcrfid  Cat,  165 

might  say,  if  she  wanted  to,  and  she  did  say  that  the 
deacon  and  his  wife  did  not  get  on  like  angels. 
But  the  wee,  wiry,  weird  Widow  Wiggins  watched 
wearily  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
And  still  Deacon  Pettibone  refused  to  break  his 
word,  though  he  was  breaking  his  wife's  heart,  and 
breaking  God's  command,  and  ruining  his  son. 

At  last  the  sick  mother,  longing  for  her  son, 
thought  of  a  plan  by  which  to  bring  her  husband  to 
reason. 

"Fetch  your  cat  over  the  next  time  you  come," 
she  said  to  the  wee,  wiry,  widow  woman. 

And  so  when  the  wee,  weird  Widow  Wiggins  came 
again,  the  wonderful  cat  followed  her  and  lay  down 
by  the  stove.  Soon  after,  the  deacon  came  in,  look- 
ing very  sad  but  very  stern. 

^''  Did  you  see  Tom  ? "  asked  his  wife. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  the  deacon,  "and  I  don't 
want  to." 

"  Mew !  "  said  the  cat. 

The  deacon  noticed  the  cat,  and  got  a  little  red 
in  the  face ;  but  he  went  on  talking. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  wife,  Tom  has  made  his  bed  and 
he  must  lie  on  it,  that's  all !  " 

"  Mew  1  mew  !  mew  ! " 


1 66  Queer  Stories, 

"  I  can't  break  my  word  anyhow ;  I  said  he 
shouldn't  come  back,  and  he  shan't ;  so  now  there's 
no  use  in  pining  yourself  to  death  over  a  scape- 
grace." 

"  Mew  !  mew !  mew  !  m-e-e-o-w  !  "  shrieked  the 
cat,  with  every  bristle  on  end,  and  her  claws  scratch- 
ing the  floor. 

"  Mrs.  Wiggins,  I  wish  you  would  keep  that  miser- 
able cat  at  home,"  said  the  deacon  j  and  so  the  wee 
widow  woman  took  up  the  wonderful  cat  and  carried 
it  home. 

But  the  poor  deacon  couldn't  rest.  That  night  he 
thought  he  could  hear  that  cat  mewing  at  him  all 
the  time.  He  remembered  that  he  had  not  seen 
Tom  for  some  days.  What  if  he  was  dying  ?  It  was 
a  long  night.  The  deacon  at  last  got  to  thinking  of 
how  God  had  borne  with  him,  miserable  sinner  that 
he  was,  and  should  he  refuse  to  forgive  his  son  ? 
Then  he  thought  of  the  touching  and  wonderful 
Parable  of  the  Prodigal.  And  then  in  the  stillness 
he  thought  he  could  hear  something  in  his  heart 
mewing  at  him. 

At  last  daylight  came,  and  he  hastened  to  find 
Tom  in  a  wretched  garret  racked  with  disease.  He 
brought  him   home  tenderly,  and  through  kindness 


Widow  Wiggins^  Wonderful  Cat. 


167 


and  God's  mercy  Tom  got  well  both  in  his  body  and 
in  his  soul. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  there  never  was  any  wee,  weird, 
wiry,  widow  woman  with  a  wonderful  cat,  —  perhaps 
not ;  but  I  do  know  that  down  in  your  heart  there 
is  something  called  conscience,  that  mews  louder 
than  Widow  Wiggins'  wonderful  cat,  when  you  have 
mean  or  unforgiving  tempers.  Keep  on  good  terms 
with  it,  for  if  conscience  bristles  up  at  you,  you  may 
be  sure  that  God  is  not  pleased  with  you. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   WALKING-STICK   WALKS. 

SOME  men  carry  canes.  Some  men  make  the 
canes  carry  them.  I  never  could  tell  just 
what  Mr.  Blake  carried  his  cane  for.  I  am  sure 
it  did  not  often  feel  his  weight.  For  he  was  neither 
old,  nor  rich,  nor  lazy. 

He  was  a  tall,  straight  man,  who  walked  as  if  he 
loved  to  walk,  with  a  cheerful  tread  that  was  good 
to  see.  I  am  sure  he  didn't  carry  the  cane  for 
show.  It  was  not  one  of  those  little  sickly  yellow 
things,  that  some  men  nurse  as  tenderly  as  Miss 
Snooks  nurses  her  lap-dog.  It  was  a  great  black 
stick  of  solid  ebony,  with  a  box-wood  head,  and  I 
think  Mr.  Blake  carried  it  for  company.  And  it 
had  a  face,  like  that  of  an  old  man,  carved  on  one 


1^2  Mr,  Blake's  Walking- Stick. 

side  of  the  box-wood  head.  Mr.  Blake  kept  it 
ringing  in  a  hearty  way  upon  the  pavement  as  he 
walked,  and  the  boys  would  look  up  from  their 
marbles  when  they  heard  it,  and  say :  "  There 
comes  Mr.  Blake,  the  minister !  '^  And  I  think  that 
nearly  every  invalid  and  poor  person  in  Thornton 
knew  the  cheerful  voice  of  the  minister's  stout  ebony 
stick. 

It  was  a  clear,  crisp,  sunshiny  morning  in  Decem- 
ber. The  leaves  were  all  gone,  and  the  long  lines 
of  white  frame  houses  that  were  hid  away  in  the 
thick  trees  during  the  summer,  showed  themselves 
standing  in  straight  rows  now  that  the  trees  were 
bare.  And  Purser,  Pond  &  Co.'s  great  factory  on 
the  brook  in  the  valley  below  was  plainly  to  be 
seen,  with  its  long  rows  of  windows  shining  and 
shimmering  in  the  brilliant  sun,  and  its  brick 
chimney  reached  up  like  the  Tower  of  Babel,  and 
poured  out  a  steady  stream  of  dense,  black  smoke. 

It  was  just  such  a  shining  winter  morning.  Mr. 
Blake  and  his  walking-stick  were  just  starting  out  for 
a  walk  together.  ''  It's  a  fine  morning,"  thought  the 
minister,  as  he  shut  the  parsonage  gate.  x\nd  when 
he  struck  the  cane  sharply  on  the  stones  it  answered 
him    cheerily:    "It's   a   fine  morning!"     The  cane 


The  Walking- Stick  Walks,  173 

always  agreed  with  Mr.  Blake.  So  they  were  able 
to  walk  together,  according  to  Scripture,  because 
they  were  agreed. 

Just  as  he  came  round  the  corner  the  minister 
found  a  party  of  boys  waiting  for  him.  They  had 
already  heard  the  cane  remarking  that  it  was  a  fine 
morning  before  Mr.  Blake  came  in  sight. 

".Good  morning  1  Mr.  Blake,"  said  the  three 
boys. 

*'  Good  morning,  my  boys  ;  I'm  glad  to  see  you," 
said  the  minister,  and  he  clapped  "  Old  Ebony " 
down  on  the  sidewalk,  and  it  said  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you." 

"  Mr.  Blake ! "  said  Fred  White,  scratching  his 
brown  head  and  looking  a  little  puzzled.  "  Mr. 
Blake,  if  it  ain^t  any  harm  — if  you  don't  mind,  you 
know,  telling  a  fellow,  —  a  boy,  I  mean  —  "  Just 
here  he  stopped  talking ;  for  though  he  kept  on 
scratching  vigorously,  no  more  words  would  come  ; 
and  comical  Sammy  Bantam,  who  stood  alongside, 
whispered,  "  Keep  a-scratching,  Fred ;  the  old  cow 
will  give  down  after  a  while  !  " 

Then  Fred  laughed,  and  the  other  boys,  and  the 
minister  laughed,  and  the  cane  could  do  nothing  but 
stamp  its  foot  in  amusement. 


174  ^^'  Blake's  Walking- Stick, 

"Well,  Fred,"  said  the  minister,  "What  is  it? 
speak  out."  But  Fred  couldn't  speak  now  for 
laughing,  and  Sammy  had  to  do  the  talking  himself. 
He  was  a  stumpy  boy,  who  had  stopped  off  short; 
and  you  couldn't  guess  his  age,  because  his  face  was 
so  much  older  than  his  body. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Blake,"  said  Sammy,  "  we  boys 
wanted  to  know, — if  there  wasn't  any  harm  in  your 
telling,  —  why,  we  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  a 
thing  we  are  going  to  have  on  Christmas  at  our 
Sunday-school." 

"  Well,  boys,  I  don't  know  any  more  about  it  yet 
than  you  do.  The  teachers  will  talk  it  over  at  their 
next  meeting.  They  have  already  settled  some 
things,  but  I  have  not  heard  what." 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  something  good  to  eat,"  said 
Tommy  Puffer.  Tommy's  body  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  a  pudding-bag.  It  was  an  india-rubber 
pudding-bag,  though.  I  shouldn't  like  to  say  that 
Tommy  was  a  glutton.  Not  at  all.  But  I  am  sure 
that  no  boy  of  his  age  could  put  out  of  sight,  in  the 
same  space  of  time,  so  many  dough-nuts,  ginger- 
snaps,  tea-cakes,  apple-dumplings,  punipkin-pies, 
jelly-tarts,  puddings,  ice-creams,  raisins,  puts,  and 
other  things  of  the  sort.     Other  people  stared  at  him 


The  Walking-stick  Walks,  175 

in  wonder.  He  was  never  too  full  to  take  anything 
that  was  offered  him,  and  at  parties  his  weak  and 
foolish  mother  was  always  getting  all  she  could  to 
stuff  Tommy  with.  So  when  Tommy  said  he  hoped 
it  would  be  something  nice  to  eat,  and  rolled  his 
soft  lips  about,  as  though  he  had  a  cream  tart  in  his 
mouth,  all  the  boys  laughed,  and  Mr.  Blake  smiled. 
I  think  even  the  cane  would  have  smiled  if  it  had 
thought  it  polite. 

"  I  hope  it'll  be  something  pleasant,"  said  Fred 
Welch. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  stumpy  little  Tommy  Bantam. 

"  So  do  I,  boys,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  as  he  turned 
away ;  and  all  the  way  down  the  block  Old  Ebony 
kept  calling  back,  '^  So  do  I,  boys  !  so  do  I ! " 

Mr.  Blake  and  his  friend  the  cane  kept  on  down 
the  street,  until  they  stood  in  front  of  a  building 
that  was  called  "  The  Yellow  Row."  It  was  a  long, 
two-story  frame  building,  that  had  once  been  inhab- 
ited by  genteel  people.  Why  they  ever  built  it  in 
that  shape,  or  why  they  daubed  it  with  yellow  paint, 
is  more  than  I  can  tell.  But  it  had  gone  out  of 
fashion,  and  now  it  was,  as  the  boys  expressed  it,* 
"  seedy."  Old  hats  and  old  clothes  filled  many  of 
the  places  once  filled  by  glass.  Into  one  room  of 
this  row  Mr.  Blake  entered,  saying :  — 


176  Mr.  B lakers  Walkifig- Stick. 

"  How  are  you,  Aunt  Parm'ly  ? " 

"  Howd'y,  Mr.  Blake,  howd'y  !  I  know'd  you  was 
a-comin',  honey,  fer  I  hyeard  the  sound  of  yer  cane 
afore  you  come  in.  I'm  mis'able  these  yer  days, 
thank  you.  I'se  got  a  headache,  an'  a  backache, 
and  a  toothache  in  de  boot." 

I  suppose  the  poor  old  colored  woman  meant  to 
say  that  she  had  a  toothache  "  to  boot." 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Blake,  Jane's  got  a  little  sumpin 
to  do  now,  and  we  can  git  bread  enough,  thank  the 
Lord,  but  as  fer  coal,  that's  the  hardest  of  all.  We 
has  to  buy  it  by  the  bucketful,  and  that's  mity  high 
at  fifteen  cents  a  bucket.  An'  pears  like  we  couldn't 
never  git  nothin'  a-head  on  account  of  my  roomatiz. 
Where  de  coal's  to  come  from  dis  ere  winter  I  don't 
know,  cep  de  good  Lord  sends  it  down  out  of  the 
sky  \  and  I  reckon  stone-coal  don't  never  come  dat 
dar  road." 

After  some  more  talk,  Mr.  Blake  went  in  to  see 
Peter  Sitles,  the  blind  broom-maker. 

"  I  hyeard  yer  stick,  preacher  Blake,"  said  Sitles. 
"  That  air  stick  o'  yourn's  better'n  a  whole  rigimint 
of  doctors  fer  the  blues.  An'  I've  been  a  havin'  on 
the  blues  powerful  bad,  Mr.  Blake,  these  yer  last 
few  days.     I  remembered  what  you  was  a-saying  the 


The  Walking- Stick  Walks,  i^y 

last  time  you  was  here,  about  trustin'  of  the  good 
Lord.  But  I've  had  a  purty  consid'able  heartache 
under  my  jacket  fer  all  that.  Now,  there's  that  Ben 
of  mine,"  and  here  Sitles  pointed  to  a  restless  little 
fellow  of  nine  years  old,  whose  pants  had  been 
patched  and  pieced  until  they  had  more  colors  than 
Joseph's  coat  He  was  barefoot,  ragged,  and  looked 
hungry,  as  some  poor  children  always  do.  Their 
minds  seem  hungrier  than  their  bodies.  He  was 
rocking  a  baby  in  an  old  cradle.  "There's  Ben," 
continued  the  blind  man,  "  he's  as  peart  a  boy  as 
you  ever  see,  preacher  Blake,  ef  I  do  say  it  as  hadn't 
orter  say  it.  Bennie  hain't  got  no  clothes.  I  can't 
beg.  But  Ben  orter  be  in  school."  Here  Peter 
Sitles  choked  a  litde. 

'^  How's  broom-making,  Peter  ? "  said  the  min- 
ister. 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  the  machines  as  is  a-spoiling 
us.  The  machines  make  brooms  cheap,  and  what 
can  a  blind  feller  like  me  do  agin  the  machines  with 
nothing  but  my  fingers  ?  'Tain't  no  sort  o'  use  to 
butt  my  head  agin  the  machines,  when  I  ain't  got  no 
eyes  nother.  It's  like  a  goat  trying  its  head  on  a 
locomotive.  Ef  I  could  only  eddicate  Peter  and  the 
other  two,  I'd  be  satisfied.     You  see,  I  never  had  no 


178  Mr.  Blak^s  Walking- Stick, 

book-larnin'  myself,  and  I  can't  talk  proper  no  more'n 
a  cow  can  climb  a  tree." 

"But,  Mr.  Sitles,  how  much  would  a  broom-ma- 
chine cost  you  ?  "  asked  the  minister. 

"  More'n  it's  any  use  to  think  on.  It'll  cost  sev- 
enty dollars,  and  if  it  cost  seventy  cents  'twould  be 
jest  exactly  seventy  cents  more'n  I  could  afford  to 
pay.  For  the  money  my  ole  woman  gits  fer  washin' 
don't  go  noways  at  all  towards  feedin'  the  four  chil- 
dren, let  alone  buying  me  a  machine." 

The  minister  looked  at  his  cane,  but  it  did  not 
answer  him.  Something  must  be  done.  The  min- 
ister was  sure  of  that.  Perhaps  the  walking-stick 
was,  too.     But  what  ? 

That  was  the  question. 

The  minister  told  Sides  good-bye,  and  started  to 
make  other  visits.  And  on  the  way  the  cane  kept 
crying  out,  "Something  must  be  done,  —  something 
MUST  be  done,  —  something  MUST  be  done,"  mak- 
ing the  must  ring  out  sharper  every  time.  When 
Mr.  Blake  and  the  walking-stick  got  to  the  market- 
house,  just  as  they  turned  off  from  Milk  Street  into 
the  busier  Main  Street,  the  cane  changed  its  tune 
and  begun  to  say,  "  But  what,  —  but  what^  —  but 
WHAT,  —  but  WHAT,"  until    it  said    it  so    sharply 


The  Walking-Stick  Walks, 


^79 


that  the  minister's  head  ached,  and  he  put  Old 
Ebony  under  his  arm,  so  that  it  couldn^t  talk  any 
more.  It  was  a  way  he  had  of  hushing  it  ip  when 
he  wanted  to  think. 


CHAPTER  11. 


LONG-HEADED   WILLIE. 


'  *  T  \  E  biskits  is  cold,  and  de  steaks  is  cold 
J — J  as  —  as  —  ice,  and  dinner's  spiled  \  '^  said 
Curlypate,  a  girl  about  three  years  old,  as  Mr. 
Blake  came  in  from  his  forenoon  of  visiting.  She 
tried  to  look  very  much  vexed  and  "  put  out,''  but 
there  was  always  either  a  smile  or  a  cry  hidden 
away  in  her  dimpled  cheek. 

"  Pshaw !  Curlypate,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  as  he  put 
down  his  cane,  "  you  don't  scold  worth  a  cent !  " 
And  he  lifted  her  up  and  kissed  her. 

And  then  Mamma  Blake  smiled,  and  they  all  sat 
down  to  the  table.  While  they  ate,  Mr.  Blake  told 
about  his  morning  visits,  and  spoke  of  Parm'ly  with- 
out coal,  and  Peter  Sitles  with  no  broom-machine, 
and  described  little  Ben  Sitles's  hungry  face,  and 
told  how  he  had  visited  the  widow  Martin,  who  had 
no  sewing-machine,  and  who  had  to  receive  help 
from  the  overseer  of  the  poor.     The  overseer  told 


Long  Headed  Willie.  i8i 

her  that  she  must  bind  out  her  daughter,  twelve 
years  old,  and  her  boy  of  ten,  if  she  expected  to 
have  any  help ;  and  the  mother^s  heart  was  just 
about  broken  at  the  thought  of  losing  her  children. 

Now,  while  all  this  was  taking  place,  Willie  Blake, 
the  minister's  son,  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  of  age, 
sat  by  the  big  porcelain  water-pitcher,  listening  to 
all  that  was  said.  His  deep  blue  eyes  looked  over 
the  pitcher  at  his  father,  then  at  his  mother,  taking 
in  all  their  descriptions  of  poverty  with  a  wondrous 
pitifulness.  But  he  did  not  say  much.  What  went 
on  in  his  long  head  I  do  not  know,  for  his  was  one 
of  those  heads  that  projected  forward  and  back- 
ward, and  the  top  of  which  overhung  the  base,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  load  of  hay.  Now  and  then  his 
mother  looked  at  him,  as  if  she  would  like  to  see 
through  his  skull  and  read  his  thoughts.  But  I  think 
she  didn't  see  anything  but  the  straight,  silken,  fine, 
flossy  hair,  silvery  white,  touched  a  little  bit,  —  only 
a  little,  —  as  he  turned  it  in  looking  from  one  to  the 
other,  with  a  tinge  of  what  people  call  a  golden,  but 
what  is  really  a  sort  of  a  pleasant  straw  color.  He 
usually  talked,  and  asked  questions,  and  laughed 
like  other  boys ;  but  now  he  seemed  to  be  swallowing 
the  words  of  his  father  and  mother  more  rapidly  even 


i82  Mr.  Blake's  Walking- Stick. 

than  he  did  his  dinner ;  for,  like  most  boys,  he  ate 
as  if  it  were  a  great  waste  of  time  to  eat.  But  when 
he  was  done  he  did  not  hurry  off  as  eagerly  as  usual 
to  reading  or  to  play.     He  sat  and  listened. 

"What  makes  you  look  so  sober,  Willie?"  asked 
Helen,  his  sister. 

"What  you  thinkin*,  Willie?"  said  Curlypate, 
peering  through  the  pitcher  handle  at  him. 

"  Willie,"  broke  in  his  father,  "  mamma  and  I  are 
going  to  a  wedding  out  at  Sugar  Hill "  — 

"  Sugar  Hill  ;  O  my  !  "  broke  in  Curlypate. 

"  Out  at  Sugar  Hill,"  continued  Mr.  Blake,  strok- 
ing the  Curlypate,  ''and  as  I  have  some  calls  to 
make,  we  shall  not  be  back  till  bedtime.  I  am  sorry 
to  keep  you  from  your  play  this  Saturday  afternoon, 
but  we  have  no  other  housekeeper  but  you  and 
Helen.  See  that  the  children  get  their  suppers 
early,  and  be  careful  about  fire." 

I  believe  to  "  be  careful  about  fire  "  is  the  last 
command  that  every  parent  gives  to  children  on 
leaving  them  alone. 

Now  I  know  that  people  who  write  stories  are 
very  careful  nowadays  not  to  make  their  boys  too 
good.  I  suppose  that  I  ought  to  represent  Willie  as 
"  taking  on "  a  good  deal  when   he   found   that  he 


Long- Headed  Willie.  183 

couldn't  play  all  Saturday  afternoon,  as  he  had  ex- 
pected. But  I  shall  not.  For  one  thing,  at  least, 
in  my  story,  is  true  \  that  is,  Willie.  If  I  tell  you 
that  he  is  good  you  may  believe-  it.  I  have  seen 
him. 

He  only  said,  "  Yes,  sir." 

Mrs.  Blake  did  not  keep  a  girl.  The  minister  did 
not  get  a  small  fortune  of  a  salary.  So  it  happened 
that  Willie  knew  pretty  well  how  to  keep  house. 
He  was  a  good  brave  boy,  never  ashamed  to  help 
his  mother  in  a  right  manly  way.  He  could  wash 
dishes  and  milk  the  cow,  and  often,  when  mamma 
had  a  sick-headache,  had  he  gotten  a  good  breakfast, 
never  forgetting  tea  and  toast  for  the  invalid. 

So  SanchoJ  the  Canadian  pony,  was  harnessed  to 
the  minister's  rusty  buggy,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blake 
got  in  and  told  the  children  good-bye.  Then  San- 
cho  started  off,  and  had  gone  about  ten  steps,  when 
he  was  suddenly  reined  up  with  a  "Whoa!" 

"  Willie  !  "  said  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Sir." 

"  Be  careful  about  fire." 

''  Yes,  sir." 

And  then  old  blackey-brown  Sancho  moved  on 
in  a  gentle  trot,  and  Willie  and  Helen  and  Richard 


1 84  ^^^-  Blake's  Walking- Stick. 

went  into  the  house,  where  Curlypate  had  already 
gone,  and  where  they  found  her  on  tiptoe,  with  her 
short  little  fingers  in  the  sugar-bowl,  trying  in  vain 
to  find  a  lump  that  would  not  go  to  pieces  in  the 
vigorous  squeeze  that  she  gave  it  in  her  desire  to 
make  sure  of  it. 

So  Willie  washed  the  dishes,  while  Helen  wiped 
them,  and  Richard  put  them  away,  and  they  had  a 
merry  time,  though  Willie  had  to  soothe  several 
rising  disputes  between  Helen  and  Richard.  Then 
a  glorious  lot  of  wood  was  gotten  in,  and  Helen 
came  near  sweeping  a  hole  in  the  carpet  in  her  eager 
desire  to  "  surprise  mamma."  Curlypate  went  in 
the  parlor  and  piled  things  up  in  a  wonderful  way, 
declaring  that  she,  too,  was  going  to  "  susprise  mam- 
ma.'' And  doubtless  mamma  would  have  felt  no 
little  surprise  if  she  could  have  seen  the  parlor  after 
Curlypate  "  put  it  to  rights." 

Later  in  the  evening  the  cow  was  milked,  and  a 
plain  supper  of  bread  and  milk  eaten.  Then  Rich- 
ard and  Curlypate  were  put  away  for  the  night. 
And  presently  Helen,  who  was  bravely  determined 
to  keep  Willie  company,  found  her  head  trying  to 
drop  off  her  shoulders,  and  so  she  had  to  give  up 
to  the  *'  sand  man,"  and  go  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    WALKING-STICK    A   TALKING   STICK. 

WILLIE  was  now  all  by  himself.  He  put  on 
more  wood,  and  drew  the  rocking-chair 
up  by  the  fire,  and  lay  back  in  it.  It  was  very  still ; 
he  could  hear  every  mouse  that  moved.  The 
stillness  seemed  to  settle  clear  down  to  his  heart. 
Presently  a  wagon  went  clattering  by.  Then,  as  the 
sound  died  away  in  the  distance,  it  seemed  stiller 
than  ever.  Willie  tried  to  sleep ;  but  he  couldn't. 
He  kept  listening  ;  and  after  all  he  was  listening  to 
nothing ;  nothing  but  that  awful  clock,  that  would 
keep  up  such  a  tick-tick,  tick-tick,  tick-tick.  The 
curtains  were  down,  and  Willie  didn't  dare  to  raise 
them,  or  to  peep  out.  He  could  feel  how  dark  it 
was  out  doors. 

But  presently  he  forgot  the  stillness.  He  fell  to 
thinking  of  what  Mr.  Blake  had  said  at  dinner.  He 
thought  of  poor  old  rheumatic  Parm'ly,  and  her 
single  bucket  of  coal  at  a  time.     He  thought  of  the 


1 88  Mr,  Blake's  Walking-Stick, 

blind  broom-maker  who  needed  a  broom-machine, 
and  of  the  poor  widow  whose  children  must  be  taken 
away  because  the  mother  had  no  sewing-machine. 
All  of  these  thoughts  made  the  night  seem  dark,  and 
they  made  Willie's  heart  heavy.  But  the  thoughts 
kept  him  company. 

Then  he  wished  he  was  rich,  and  he  thought  if  he 
were  as  rich  as  Captain  Purser,  who  owned  the  mill, 
he  would  give  away  sewing-machines  to  all  poor 
widows  who  needed  them.  But  pshaw  !  what  was 
the  use  of  wishing  ?  His  threadbare  pantaloons  told 
him  how  far  off  he  was  from  being  rich. 

But  he  would  go  to  the  Polytechnic ;  he  would 
become  a  civil  engineer.  He  would  make  a  fortune 
some  day  when  he  became  celebrated.  Then  he 
would  give  widow  Martin  a  sewing-machine.  This 
was  the  nice  castle  in  the  air  that  Willie  built.  But 
just  as  he  put  on  the  last  stone  a  single  thought 
knocked  it  down. 

What  would  become  of  the  widow  and  her  chil- 
dren while  he  was  learning  to  be  an  engineer  and 
making  a  fortune  afterward?  And  where  would  he 
get  the  money  to  go  to  the  Polytechnic }  This  last 
question  Willie  had  asked  every  day  for  a  year  or 
two  past. 


The  Walking-stick  a  Talking  Stick,         189 

Unable  to  solve  this  problem,  his  head  grew  tired, 
and  he  lay  down  on  the  lounge,  saying  to  himself, 
"  Something  must  be  done  !  " 

"  Something  must  be  done !  "  Willie  was  sure 
somebody  spoke.  He  looked  around.  There  was 
nobody  in  the  room. 

"  Something  must  be  done ! "  This  time  he  saw 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  barely  visible  in  the 
shadow,  his  father's  cane.  The  voice  seemed  to 
come  from  that  corner. 

"  Something  must  be  done ! "  Yes,  it  was  the 
cane.  He  could  see  its  yellow  head,  and  the  face 
on  one  side  was  toward  him.  How  bright  its  eyes 
were  !  It  did  not  occur  to  Willie  just  then  that 
there  was  anything  surprising  in  the  fact  that  the 
walking-stick  had  all  at  once  become  a  talking 
stick. 

"  Something  MUST  be  done ! "  said  the  cane, 
lifting  its  one  foot  up  and  bringing  it  down  with 
emphasis  at  the  word  must.  Willie  felt  pleased 
that  the  little  old  man  —  I  mean  the  walking-stick 
—  should  come  to  his  help. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Old  Ebony,  hopping  out 
of  his  shady  corner ;  "  I  tell  you  what,"  it  said,  and 
then  stopped  as  if  to  reflect ;  then  finished  by  say- 
ing, "  It's  a  shame  !  " 


ipo  Mr.  Blake's  Walking-Stick. 

Willie  was  about  to  ask  the  cane  to  what  he  re- 
ferred, but  he  thought  best  to  wait  till  Old  Ebony 
got  ready  to  tell  of  his  own  accord.  But  the  walk- 
ing-stick did  not  think  best  to  answer  immediately, 
but  took  entirely  a  new  and  surprising  track.  It 
actually  went  to  quoting  Scripture  ! 

"  My  eyes  are  dim,"  said  the  cane,  "  and  I  never 
had  much  learning ;  canes  weren't  sent  to  school 
when  I  was  young.  Won't  you  read  the  thirty-ftfth 
verse  of  the  twentieth  chapter  of  Acts." 

Willie  turned  to  the  stand  and  saw  the  Bible  open 
at  that  verse.  He  did  not  feel  surprised.  It  seemed 
natural  enough  to  him.  He  read  the  verse,  not 
aloud,  but  to  himself,  for  Old  Ebony  seemed  to  hear 
his  thoughts.     He  read  :  — 

"  Ye  ought  to  support  the  weak,  and  to  remem- 
ber the  words  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  how  he  said,  It  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

"  Now,"  said  the  walking-stick,  stepping  or  hop- 
ping up  toward  the  lounge  and  leaning  thoughtfully 
over  the  head  of  it,  "  Now,  I  say  that  it  is  a  shame 
that  when  the  birthday  of  that  Lord  Jesus,  who 
gave  himself  away,  and  who  said  it  is  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive,  comes  round,  all  of  you 
Sunday-school  scholars  are  thinking  only  of  what 
you  are  going  to  get." 


The  Walking- Stick  a  Talking  Stick.         19  t 

Willie  was  about  to  say  that  they  gave  as  well  as 
received  on  Christmas,  and  that  his  class  had  already 
raised  the  money  to  buy  a  Bible  Dictionary  for  their 
teacher.  But  Old  Ebony  seemed  to  guess  his 
thought,  and  he  only  said,  "  And  that's  another 
shame  !  " 

Willie  couldn't  see  how  this  could  be,  and  he 
thought  the  walking-stick  was  using  very  strong  lan- 
guage indeed.  I  think  myself  the  cane  spoke  too 
sharply,  for  I  don't  think  the  harm  lies  in  giving  to 
and  receiving  from  our  friends,  but  in  neglecting  the 
poor.  But  you  don't  care  what  I  think,  you  want  to 
know  what  the  cane  said. 

"  I'm  pretty  well  acquainted  with  Scripture,"  said 
Old  Ebony,  "  having  spent  fourteen  years  in  com- 
pany with  a  minister.  Now  won't  you  please  read 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  verses  of  the  fourteenth 
chapter  of"  — 

But  before  the  cane  could  finish  the  sentence, 
Willie  heard  some  one  opening  the  door.  It  was 
his  father.  He  looked  round  in  bewilderment.  The 
oil  in  the  lamp  had  burned  out,  and  it  was  dark. 
The  fire  was  low,  and  the  room  chilly. 

"  Heigh-ho,  Willie,  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Blake, 
"  Where's  your  light,  and  where's  your  fire.  This  is 
a  cold  reception.     What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 


192  Mr,  Blak^s  Walking- Stick. 

"Listening  to  the  cane  talk/'  he  replied  ;  and 
thinking  what  a  foolish  answer  that  was,  he  put  on 
some  more  coal,  while  his  mother,  who  was  lighting 
the  lamp,  said  he  must  have  been  dreaming.  The 
walking-stick  stood  in  its  corner,  face  to  the  wall,  as 
if  it  had  never  been  a  talking  stick. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MR.    BLAKE   AGREES   WITH    THE   WALKING    STICK. 

EARLY  on  Sunday  morning  Willie  awoke  and 
began  to  think  about  Sitles,  and  to  wish 
he  had  money  to  buy  him  a  broom-machine.  And 
then  he  thought  of  widow  Martin.  But  all  his 
thinking  would  do  no  good.  Then  he  thought  of 
what  Old  Ebony  had  said,  and  he  wished  he  could 
know  what  that  text  was  that  the  cane  was  just 
going  to  quote. 

"It  was/'  said  Willie,  "the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
verses  of  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  something.  I'll 
see." 

So  he  began  with  the  beginning  of  the  Bible,  and 
looked  first  at  Genesis  xiv.  12,  13.  But  it  was  about 
the  time  when  Abraham  had  heard  of  the  capture  of 
Lot  and  mustered  his  army  to  recapture  him.  He 
thought  a  minute. 

"  That  can't  be  what  it  is,"  said  Willie,  « I'll  look 
at  Exodus." 


194  ■M'r.  Blake's  Walking- Stick, 

In  Exodus  it  was  about  standing  still  at  the  Red 
Sea  and  waiting  for  God's  salvation.  It  might  mean 
that  God  would  deliver  the  poor.  But  that  was  not 
just  what  the  cane  was  talking  about.  It  was  about 
giving  gifts  to  friends.  So  he  went  on  to  Leviticus. 
But  it  was  about  the  wave  offering,  and  the  sin 
offering,  and  the  burnt  offering.  That  was  not  it. 
And  so  he  went  from  book  to  book  until  he  had 
reached  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  verses  of  the  four- 
teenth chapter  of  the  book  of  Judges.  He  was  just 
reading  in  that  place  about  Samson's  riddle,  w^hen 
his  mamma  called  him  to  breakfast. 
•  He  was  afraid  to  say  anything  about  it  at  the 
table  for  fear  of  being  laughed  at.  But  he  was  full  of 
what  the  walking-stick  said.  And  at  family  worship 
his  father  read  the  twentieth  chapter  of  Acts.  When 
he  came  to  the  part  about  its  being  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive,  Willie  said,  "  That's  what  the  ' 
cane  said." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  his  father. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  out  loud,"  said  Willie. 

"  Don't  think  out  loud  while  I  am  reading,"  said 
Mr.  Blake. 

Willie  did  not  find  time  to  look   any  further  for 
the  other  verses.     He  wished   his   father   had  hap- 


Mr.  Blake  agrees  with  the  Walking- Stick,    195 

pened  on  them  instead  of  the  first  text  which  the 
cane  quoted. 

In  church  he  kept  thinking  all  the  time  about  the 
cane.  "  Now  what  could  it  mean  by  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  verses  of  the  fourteenth  chapter? 
There  isn't  anything  in  the  Bible  against  giving 
away  presents  to  one's  friends.  It  was  only  a  dream 
anyhow,  and  maybe  there's  nothing  in  it." 

But  he  forgot  the  services,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in 
his  thoughts.  At  last  Mr.  Blake  arose  to  read  his 
text.  Willie  looked  at  him,  but  thought  of  what  the 
cane  said.  But  what  was  it  that  attracted  his  atten- 
tion so  quickly  ? 

"  The  twelfth  and  thirteenth  verses  "  — 

"  Twelfth  and  thirteenth  !  "  said  Willie  to  him- 
self. 

"  Of  the  fourteenth  chapter,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Fourteenth  chapter ! "  said  Willie,  almost  aloud. 

"  Of  Luke." 

Willie  was  all  ears,  while  Mr.  Blake  read :  "Then 
said  he  also  to  him  that  bade  him.  When  thou  mak- 
est  a  dinner  or  a  supper,  call  not  thy  friends,  nor 
thy  brethren,  neither  thy  kinsmen,  nor  thy  rich 
neighbors,  lest  they  also  bid  thee  again,  and  a 
recompense  be  made  thee.     But  when  thou  makest 


196  Mr,  B lakers  Walkifig- Stick, 

a  feast,  call  the  poor,  the  maimed,  the  lame,  the 
blind." 

"  That's  it !  "  he  said,  half  aloud,  but  his  mother 
jogged  him. 

The  minister  added  the  next  verse  also,  and  read : 
"  And  thou  shalt  be  blessed,  for  they  cannot  recom- 
pense thee  j  for  thou  shalt  be  recompensed  at  the 
resurrection  of  the  just." 

Willie  had  never  listened  to  a  sermon  as  he  did 
to  that.  He  stopped  two  or  three  times  to  wonder 
whether  the  cane  had  been  actually  about  to  repeat 
his  father's  text  to  him,  or  whether  he  had  not  heard 
his  father  repeat  it  at  some  time,  and  had  dreamed 
about  it. 

I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  much  about  Mr. 
Blake's  sermon.  It  was  a  sermon  that  he  and  the 
walking-stick  had  prepared  while  they  were  going 
round  among  the  poor.  I  think  Mr.  Blake  did  not 
strike  his  cane  down  on  the  sidewalk  for  nothing. 
Most  of  that  sermon  must  have  been  hammered  out 
in  that  way,  when  he  and  the  walking-stick  were 
saying,  "  Something  must  be  done  1 "  For  that  was 
just  what  that  sermon  said.  It  told  about  the  WTong 
of  forgetting,  on  the  birthday  of  Christ,  to  do  any- 
thing for  the  poor.     It  made  everybody  think.     But 


Mr,  Blake  agrees  with  the  Walking-Stick.     197 

Mn  Blake  did  not  know  how  much  of  that  ser- 
mon went  into  Willie  Blake's  long  head,  as  he  sat 
there  with  his  white  full  forehead  turned  up  to  his 
father. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   FATHER   PREACHES   AND   THE   SON   PRACTICES. 

THAT  afternoon,  Willie  was  at  Sunday-school 
long  before  the  time.     He  had  a  plan. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  boys,"  said  he,  "  let's  not 
give  Mr.  Marble  anything  this  year;  and  let's  ask 
him  not  to  give  us  anything.  Let's  get  him  to 
put  the  money  he  would  use  for  us  with  the  money 
we  should  spend  on  a  present  for  him,  and  give 
it  to  buy  coal  for  Old  Aunt  Parm'ly." 

"I  mean  to  spend  all  my  money  on  soft  gum 
drops  and  tarts,"  said  Tommy  Puffer ;  "  they're 
splendid  ! "  and  with  that  he  began,  as  usual,  to  roll 
his  soft  lips  together  in  a  half  chewing,  half  sucking 
manner,  as  if  he  had  a  half  dozen  cream  tarts  under 
his  tongue,  and  two  dozen  gum  drops  in  his  cheeks. 

"Tommy,"  said  stumpy  little  Sammy  Bantam, 
"  it's  a  good  thing  you  didn't  live  in  Egypt,  Tommy, 
in  the  days  of  Joseph." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Tommy. 


Father  Preaches  and  Son  Practices,         ic)9 

"Because,"  said  Sammy,  looking  around  the  room 
absently,  as  if  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  going 
to  say,  "because,  you  see"  —  and  then  he  opened 
a  book  and  began  to  read,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  to 
finish  the  sentence. 

"  Well,  why  ?  "  demanded  Tommy,  sharply. 

"Well,  because  if  Joseph  had  had  to  feed  you 
during  the  seven  years  of  plenty,  there  wouldn't 
have  been  a  morsel  left  for  the  years  of  famine  !  " 

The  boys  laughed  as  boys  will  at  a  good  shot,  and 
Tommy  reddened  a  little  and  said,  regretfully,  that 
he  guessed  the  Egyptians  hadn't  any  doughnuts. 

Willie  did  not  forget  his  main  purpose,  but  car- 
ried his  point  in  his  own  class.  He  still  had  time  to 
speak  to  some  of  the  boys  and  girls  in  other  classes. . 
Everybody  liked  to  do  what  Willie  asked  ;  there  was 
something  sweet  and  strong  in  his  blue  eyes,  eyes 
that  "  did  not  seem  to  have  any  bottom,  they  were 
so  deep,"  one  of  the  girls  said.  Soon  there  was  an 
excitement  in  the  school,  and  about  the  door ;  girls 
and  boys  talking  and  discussing,  but  as  soon  as  any 
opposition  came  up  Willie's  half-j^oaxing  but  decided 
way  bore  it  down.  I  think  he  was  much  helped  by 
Sammy's  wit,  which  was  all  on  his  side.  It  was 
agreed,  finally,  that  whatever  scholars  meant  to  give 


200  Mr,  Blake's  Walking- Stick, 

to  teachers,  or  teachers  to  scholars,  should  go  to  the 
poor. 

The  teachers  caught  the  enthusiasm,  and  were 
very  much  in  favor  of  the  project,  for  in  the  whole 
movement  they  saw  the  fruit  of  their  own  teaching. 

The  superintendent  had  been  detained,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  the  school  standing  in  knots  about 
the  room.  He  soon  called  them  to  order,  and  ex- 
pressed his  regrets  that  they  should  get  into  such 
disorder.  There  was  a  smile  on  all  faces,  and  he 
saw  that  there  was  something  more  in  the  apparent 
disorder  than  he  thought.  After  school  it  was  fixed 
that  each  class  should  find  its  own  case  of  poverty. 
The  young  men's  and  the  young  women's  Bible 
classes  undertook  to  supply  Sitles  with  a  broom- 
machine,  a  class  of  girls  took  Aunt  Parm'ly  under 
their  wing,  other  classes  knew  of  other  cases  of  need, 
and  so  each  class  had  its  hands  full.  But  Willie 
could  not  get  any  class  to  see  that  Widow  Martin 
had  a  sewing-machine.  That  was  left  for  his  own  j 
and  how  should  a  class  of  eight  boys  do  it  ? 


CHAPTER  VL 


SIXTY-FIVE   DOLLARS. 


WILLIE  took  the  boys  into  the  parsonage. 
They  figured  on  it.  There  were  sixty- 
five  dollars  to  be .  raised  to  buy  the  machine.  The 
seven  boys  were  together,  for  Tommy  Puffer  had 
gone  home.  He  said  he  didn't  feel  like  staying, 
and  Sammy  Bantam  thought  he  must  be  a  little 
hungry. 

Willie  attacked  the  problem,  sixty-five  dollars. 
Toward  that  amount  they  had  three  dollars  and 
a  half  that  they  had  intended  to  spend  on  a  present 
for  Mr.  Marble.  That  left  just  sixty-one  dollars  and 
fifty  cents  to  be  raised.  Willie  ran  across  the  street 
and  brought  Mr.  Marble.  He  said  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  give  the  boys  a  book  apiece,  and  that 
each  book  would  cost  a  dollar.  It  was  rather  more 
than  he  could  well  afford  ;  but  as  he  had  intended  to 
give  eight  dollars  for  their  presents,  and  as  he  was 


202  Mr,  Blake^s  Walking- Stick, 

pleased  with  their  unselfish  behavior,  he  would 
make  it  ten. 

"  Good ! "  said  Charley  Somerset,  who  always  saw 
the  bright  side  of  things,  "  that  makes  it  all,  except 
fifty-one  dollars  and  a  half." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sammy  Bantam,  ^*  and  you're  eleven 
feet  high,  lacking  a  couple  of  yards  !  " 

Willie  next  called  his  father  in,  and  inquired  how 
much  his  Christmas  present  was  to  cost. 

"  Three  and  a  half,"  said  his  father. 

"  That's  a  lot !  Will  you  give  me  the  money  in- 
stead ? " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  meant  to  give  you  a  Life  of  George 
Stephenson,  and  some  other  books  on  engineering." 

This  made  Willie  think  a  moment ;  but  seeing  the 
walking-stick  in  the  corner,  he  said  :  "  Mrs.  Martin 
must  have  a  machine,  and  that  three  and  a  half 
makes  seventeen  dollars.  How  to  get  the  other 
forty-eight  is  the  question." 

Mr.  Blake  and  Mr.  Marble  both  agreed  that  the 
boys  could  not  raise  so  much  money,  and  should  not 
undertake  it.  But  Willie  said  there  was  nobody  to 
do  it,  and  he  guessed  it  would  come  somehow.  The 
other  boys,  when  they  came  to  church  that  evening, 
told  Willie  that  their   presents  were   commuted  for 


Sixty-five  Dollars,  203 

money  also ;  so  they  had  twenty-five  dollars  toward 
the  amount.  But  that  was  the  end  of  it,  and  there 
were  forty  dollars  yet  to  come ! 

Willie  lay  awake  that  night,  thinking.  Mr.  Mar- 
ble's class  could  not  raise  the  money.  All  the  other 
classes  had  given  all  they  could.  And  the  teachers 
would  each  give  in  their  classes.  And  they  had 
raised  all  they  could  spare  besides  to  buy  nuts  and 
candy  !  Good  !  That  was  just  it ;  they  would  do 
without  candy ! 

At  school  the  next  morning,  Willie's  white  head 
was  bobbing  about  eagerly.  He  made  every  boy 
and  girl  sign  a  petition,  asking  the  teachers  not  to 
give  them  any  nuts  or  candy.  They  all  signed 
except  Tommy  Puffer.  He  said  it  was  real  mean 
not  to  have  any  candy.  They  might  just  as  well 
not  have  any  Sunday-school,  or  any  Christmas 
either.  But  seeing  a  naughty  twinkle  in  Sammy 
Bantam's  eye,  he  w-addled  away,  while  Sammy  fired 
a  shot  after  bim,  by  remarking  that,  if  Tommy  had 
been  one  of  the  Shepherds  in  Bethlehem,  he 
wouldn't  have  listened  to  the  angels  till  he  had 
inquired  if  they  had  any  lemon-drops  in  their 
pockets ! 


204  Mr,  Blakis  Walking-Stick, 

That  night  the  extra  Teachers*  Meeting  was  held, 
and  in  walked  white-headed  Willie  with  stunted 
Sammy  Bantam  at  his  heels  to  keep  him  in  counte- 
nance. When  their  petition  was  presented,  Miss 
Belden,  who  sat  near  Willie,  said,  "  Well  done ! 
WiHie." 

"  But  I  protest,"  said  Mrs.  Puffer,  —  who  was  of 
about  as  handsome  a  figure  as  her  son,  —  '*  I  protest 
against  such  an  outrage  on  the  children.  My  Tom- 
my's been  a-feeling  bad  about  it  all  day.  It'll  break 
his  heart  if  he  don't  get  some  candy." 

Willie  was  shy,  but  for  a  moment  he  forgot  it, 
and,  turning  his  intelligent  blue  eyes  on  Mrs.  Puffer, 
he  said,  — 

"  It  will  break  Mrs.  Martin's  heart  if  her  children 
are  taken  away  from  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Puffer,  "  I  always  did  hear  that 
the  preacher's  boy  was  the  worst  in  the  parish,  and 
I  won't  take  any  impudence.  My  son  will  join  the 
Mission  School,  where  they  aren't  too  stingy  to 
give  him  a  bit  of  candy!"  And  Mrs.  Puffer  left, 
and  everybody  was  pleased. 

"  Willie  got  the  money ;  but  the  teachers  had 
counted   on   making   up   their  festival   mostly  with 


Sixty -five  Dollars,  205 

cakes  and  other  dainties,  contributed  by  families. 
So  that  the  candy  money  was  only  sixteen  dollars, 
and  Willie  was  yet  a  long  way  off  from  having  the 
amount  he  needed.  Twenty-four  dollars  were  yet 
wanting. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  WIDOW  AND  THE  FATHERLESS.      : 

THE  husband  of  widow  Martin  had  been  killed 
by  a  railroad  accident.  The  family  were 
very  poor.  Mrs.  Martin  could  sew,  and  she  could 
have  sustained  her  family  if  she  had  had  a  machine. 
But  fingers  are  not  worth  much  against  iron  wheels. 
And  so,  while  others  had  machines,  Mrs.  Martin 
could  not  make  much  without  one.  She  had  been 
obliged  to  ask  help  from  the  overseer  of  the 
poor. 

Mr,  Lampeer,  the  overseer,  was  a  hard  man.  He 
had  not  skill  enough  to  detect  impostors,  and  so  he 
had  come  to  believe  that  everybody  who  was  poor 
was  rascally.  He  had  but  one  eye,  and  he  turned 
his  head  round  in  a  curious  way  to  look  at  you  out 
of  it.  That  dreadful  one  eye  always  seemed  to  be 
going  to  shoQt.  His  voice  had  not  a  chord  of  tender- 
ness in  it,  but  was  in  every  way  harsh  and  hard.     It 


The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless,  207 

was  said  that  he  had  been  a  schoohnaster  once.  I 
pity  the  scholars. 

Widow  Martin  lived  —  if  you  could  call  it  living 
—  in  a  tumble-down  looking  house,  that  would  not 
have  stood  many  earthquakes.  She  had  tried  dili- 
gently to  support  her  family  and  keep  them  together  j 
but  the  wolf  stood  always  at  the  door.  Sewing  by 
hand  did  not  bring  in  quite  money  enough  to  buy 
bread  and  clothes  for  four  well  children,  and  pay 
the  expenses  of  poor  little  Harry's  sickness ;  for  all 
through  the  summer  and  fall  Harry  had  been  sick. 
At  last  the  food  was  gone,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  buy  fuel  with.  Mrs.  Martin  had  to  go  to  the 
overseer  of  the  poor. 

She  w^as  a  little,  shy,  hard-working  woman,  this 
Mrs.  Martin  ;  so  when  she  took  her  seat  among  the 
paupers  of  every  sort  in  Mr.  Lampeer's  office,  and 
waited  her  turn,  it  was  with  a  trembling  heart.  She 
watched  the  hard  man,  who  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
hard,  but  who  couldn't  tell  the  difference  between 
a  good  face  and  a  counterfeit ;  she  watched  him  as 
he  went  through  with  the  different  cases,  and  her 
heart  beat  every  minute  more  and  more  violently. 
When  he  came  to  her  he  broke  out  with  — 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  in  a  voice  that  sounded 


2o8  Mr,  B lakers  Walking- Stick, 

for  all  the  world  as  if  he  were  accusing  her  of  rob- 
bing a  safe. 

"  Sarah  Martin/*  said  the  widow,  trembling  with 
terror,  and  growing  red  and  white  in  turns.  Mr. 
Lampeer,  who  was  on  the  lookout  for  any  sign  of 
guiltiness,  was  now  sure  that  Mrs.  Martin  could  not 
be  honest. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  This  was  spoken  with  a 
half  sneer. 

"  In  Slab  Alley,"  whispered  the  widow,  for  her 
voice  was  scared  out  of  her. 

**  How  many  children  have  you  got  ?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  gave  him  the  list  of  her  five,  with 
their  ages,  telling  him  of  little  Harry,  who  was  six 
years  old  and  an  invalid. 

"  Your  oldest  is  twelve  and  a  girl.  I  have  a  place 
for  her,  and,  I  think,  for  the  boy,  too.  You  must 
bind  them  out.  Mr.  Slicker,  the  landlord  of  the 
Farmers'  Hotel,  will  take  the  girl,  and  I  think  James 
Sweeny  will  take  the  boy  to  run  errands  abotlt  the 
livery  stable.  I'll  send  you  some  provisions  and 
coal  to-day ;  but  you  must  let  the  children  go.  I'll 
come  to  your  house  in  a  few  days.  Don't  object;  I 
won't  hear  a  word.  If  you're  as  poor  as  you  let  on 
to  be,  you'll  be  glad  enough  to  get  your  young  ones 


The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless,  209 

into  places  where  they'll  get  enough  to  eat.  That's 
all,  not  a  word,  now."  And  he  turned  to  the  next 
applicant,  leaving  the  widow  to  go  home  with  her 
heart  so  cold. 

Let  Susie  go  to  Slicker's  tavern !  What  kind  of  a 
house  would  it  be  without  her }  Who  would  attend 
to  the  house  while  she  sewed?  And  what  would 
become  of  her  girl  in  such  a  place  ?  And  then  to 
send  George,  who  had  to  wait  on  Harry,  to  send 
him  away  forever  was  to  shut  out  all  hope  of  ever 
being  in  better  circumstances.  Then  she  could  not 
sew,  and  the  children  could  never  help  her.  God 
pity  the  people  that  fall  into  the  hands  of  public 
charity ! 

The  next  few  days  wore  heavily  on  with  the 
widow.  What  to  do  she  did  not  know.  At  night 
she  scarcely  slept  at  all.  When  she  did  drop  into  a 
sleep,  she  dreamed  that  her  children  were  starving, 
and  woke  in  fright.  Then  she  slept  again,  and 
dreamed  that  a  one-eyed  robber  had  gotten  in  at  the 
window,  and  was  carrying  off  Susie  and  George. 
At  last  morning  came.  The  last  of  the  food  was 
eaten  for  breakfast,  and  widow  Martin  sat  down  to 
wait.  Her  mind  was  in  a  horrible  state  of  doubt. 
To  starve  to  death  together,  or  to  give  up  her  chil- 


2IO  Mr,  Blake's  Walking-Stick. 

dren  !  That  was  the  question  which  many  a  poor 
mother^s  heart  has  had  to  decide.  Mrs.  Martin  soon 
became  so  nervous  she  could  not  sew.  She  could 
not  keep  back  the  tears,  and  when  Susie  and  George 
put  their  arms  about  her  neck  and  asked  what  was 
the  matter,  it  made  the  matter  worse.  It  was  the 
day  before  Christmas.  The  sleigh-bells  jingled  mer- 
rily. Even  in  Slab  Alley  one  could  hear  sounds  of 
joy  at  the  approaching  festivities.  But  there  was 
no  joy  in  Widow  Martin's  house  or  heart.  The 
dinner  hour  had  come  and  passed.  The  little  chil- 
dren were  hungry.  And  yet  Mrs.  Martin  had  not 
made  up  her  mind. 

At  the  appointed  time  Lampeer  came.  He  took 
out  the  two  indentures  with  which  the  mother  was 
to  sign  away  all  right  to  her  two  eldest  children.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  widow  told  him  that  if  she  lost 
them  she  could  do  no  work  for  her  own  support,  and 
must  be  forever  a  pauper.  Lampeer  had  an  idea 
that  no  poor  person  had  a  right  to  love  children. 
Parental  love  was,  in  his  eyes,  or  his  eye,  an  expen- 
sive luxury  that  none  but  the  rich  should  indulge  in. 

"Mrs.  Martin,"  he  said,  "you  may  either  sign 
these  indentures,  by  which  your  girl  will  get  a  good 
place   as  a  nurse   and   errand   girl    for   the   tavern- 


The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless.  211 

keeper^s  wife,  and  your  boy  will  have  plenty  to  eat 
and  get  to  be  a  good  hostler,  or  you  and  your  brats 
may  starve !  "  With  that  he  took  his  hat  and  opened 
the  door. 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Mrs.  Martin,  "  I  must  have  medi- 
cine and  food,  or  Harry  will  not  live  till  Sunday.  I 
will  sign." 

The  papers  w^ere  again  spread  out.  The  poor- 
master  jerked  the  folds  out  of  them  impatiently,  in  a 
way  that  seemed  to  say^  "  You  keep  me  an  uncon- 
scionable long  time  about  a  very  small  matter." 

When  the  papers  were  spread  out,  Mrs.  Martin's 
two  oldest  children,  who  began  to  understand  what 
was  going  on,  cried  bitterly.  Mrs.  Martin  took  the 
pen  and  was  about  to  sign.  But  it  was  necessary  to 
have  two  witnesses,  and  so  Lampeer  took  his  hat  and 
called  a  neighbor-woman,  for  the  second  witness. 

Mrs.  Martin  delayed  the  signature  as  long  as  she 
could.  But  seeing  no  other  help,  she  took  up  the 
pen.  She  thought  of  Abraham  with  the  knife  in  his 
hand.  She  hoped  that  an  angel  would  call  out  of 
heaven  to  her  relief.  But  as  there  was  no  voice  from 
heaven,  she  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink. 

Just  then  some  one  happened  to  knock  at  the  door, 
and  the  poor  woman's  nerves  were  so  weak  that  she 


212 


Mr.  Blake^s  Walking- Stick, 


let  the  pen  fall,  and   sank  into  a  chair.     Lampeer, 
who  stood  near  the  door,  opened  it  with  an  impatient 
jerk,  and  —  did  the  angel  of  deliverance  enter  ? 
It  was  only  Willie  Blake  and  Sammy  Bantam. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


SHARPS   AND   BETWEENS. 


LET  US  go  back.  We  left  Willie  awhile  ago 
puzzling  over  that  twenty-four  dollars.  After 
many  hours  of  thought  and  talk  with  Sammy 
about  how  they  should  manage  it,  two  gentlemen 
gave  them  nine  dollars,  and  so  there  was  but  fif- 
teen more  to  be  raised.  But  that  fifteen  seemed 
harder  to  get  than  the  fifty  they  had  already 
gotten.  At  last  Willie  thought  of  something.  They 
would  try  the  sewing-machine  man.  Mr.  Sharps 
would  throw  off  fifteen  dollars. 

But  they  did  not  know  Mr.  Sharps.  Though  he 
raade  more  than  fifteen  dollars  on  the  machine,  he 
hated  to  throw  anything  off.  He  was  always  glad  to 
put  on.  Sammy  described  him  by  saying  that  "  Mr. 
Sharps  was  not  for-giving  but  he  was  for-getting." 

They  talked ;  they  told  the  story ;  they  begged. 
Mr.  Sharps  really  could  not  afford  to  throw  off  a 
cent.     He  was  poor.     Taxes  were  high.     He  gave  a 


214  ^^'  Blake's  Walking- Stick. 

great  deal.  (I  do  not  know  what  he  called  a  great 
deal.  He  had  been  to  church  three  times  in  a  year, 
and  twice  he  had  put  a  penny  in  the  plate.  I  sup- 
pose Mr.  Sharps  thought  that  a  great  deal  And  so 
it  was,  for  him,  poor  fellow.)  And  then  the  butcher 
had  raised  the  price  of  meat ;  and  he  had  to  pay 
twenty-three  dollars  for  a  bonnet  for  his  daughter. 
Really,  he  was  too  poor.  So  the  boys  went  away 
down-hearted. 

But  Sammy  went  straight  to  an  uncle  of  his,  who 
was  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Thornton  Daily  Bugle. 
After  a  private  talk  with  him  he  started  back  to  Mr. 
Sharps.  Willie  followed  Sammy  this  time.  What 
Sammy  had  in  his  head  Willie  could  not  make  out. 

"  I'll  fix  him  !  "  That  was  the  only  word  Sammy 
uttered  on  the  way  back. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Sharps,''  he  began,  "  my  uncle's  name 
is  Josiah  Penn.  Maybe  you  know  him.  He's  one 
of  the  editors  of  the  Thornton  Daily  Bugle.  I've 
been  talking  with  him.  If  you  let  me  have  a  Feeler 
and  Stilson  sewing-machine  for  fifty  dollars,  I  will 
have  a  good  notice  put  in  the  Daily  Bugle J^ 

Mr.  Sharps  whistles  a  minute.  He  thought  he 
could  not  do  it.     No,  he  was  too  poor. 

"Well,    then,    Willie,"   said    Sammy,    "we'll    go 


Sharps  and  Betweens,  215 

across  the  street  and  try  the  agent  of  the  Hillrocks 
and  Nibbs  machine.  I  think  Mr.  Betweens  will 
take  my  oifer." 

"O!"  said  Mr.  Sharps,  "you  don't  want  that 
machine.  It's  only  a  single  thread,  and  it  will  ravel, 
and  —  well  —  you  don't  want  that." 

"Indeed,  my  mother  says  there  isn't  a  pin  to 
choose  between  them,"  said  Sammy ;  "  and  I  can 
give  Mr.  Betweens  just  as  good  a  notice  as  I  could 
give  you." 

"  Very  well,  take  the  machine  for  fifty  dollars.  I 
do  it  just  out  of  pity  for  the  widow,  you  know.  I 
never  could  stand  by  and  see  suffering  and  not  re- 
lieve it.  You  won't  forget  about  that  notice  in  the 
Daily  Bugle,  though,  will  you  ? " 

No,  Sammy  wouldn't  forget. 

It  was  now  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  the 
boys  thought  they  had  better  get  the  machine  down 
there. 

So  they  found  Billy  Horton,  who  belonged  to 
their  class,  and  who  drove  an  express  wagon,  and 
told  him  about  it.  He  undertook  to  take  it  down. 
But  first,  he  drove  around  the  town  and  picked  up 
all  the  boys  of  the  class,  that  they  might  share  in 
the  pleasure. 


2i6  Mr,  Blake's  Walking- Stick. 

Meantime,  a  gentleman  who  had  heard  of  Willie's 
efforts,  gave  him  a  five  dollar  bill  for  widow  Martin. 
This  Willie  invested  in  provisions,  which  he  in- 
structed the  grocer  to  send  to  the  widow. 

He  and  Sammy  hurried  down  to  widow  Martin'Sj 
and  got  there,  as  I  told  you  in  the  last  chapter,  just 
as  she  was  about  to  sign  away  all  right,  title,  and 
interest  in  two  of  the  children  whom  God  had  given 
her ;  to  sign  them  away  at  the  command  of  the  hard 
Mr.  Lampeer,  who  was  very  much  irritated  that  he 
should  be  interrupted  just  at  the  moment  when  he 
was  about  to  carry  the  point ;  for  he  loved  to  carry 
a  point  better  than  to  eat  his  breakfast. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  ANGEL   STAYS   THE   HAND. 

WHEN  the  boys  came  in,  they  told  the 
widow  that  they  wished  to  speak  with 
little  sick  Harry,  They  talked  to  Harry  awhile, 
without  noticing  what  was  going  on  in  the  other 
part  of  the  room. 

Presently  Willie  felt  his  arm  pulled.  Looking 
round,  he  saw  Susie's  tearful  face.  "Please  don't 
let  mother  give  me  and  George  away."  Somehow 
all  the  children  in  school  had  the  habit  of  coming  to 
this  long-headed  Willie  for  help,  and  to  him  Susie 
came. 

That  word  of  Susie's  awakened  Willie.  Up  to 
that  moment  he  had  not  thought  what  Mr.  Lampeer 
was  there  for.  Now  he  saw  Mrs.  Martin  holding  the 
,  pen  witii  trembling  hand,  and  making  motions  in 
the  air  preparatory  to  writing  her  name.  Most  peo- 
ple not  used  to  writing,  write  in  the  air  before  they 
touch    the   paper.     When   Willie   saw  this,  he   flew 


21:3  Mr,  Blake's  Walking- Stick, 

across  the  room  and  thrust  his  hand  upon  the  place 
where  the  name  ought  to  be,  saying,  — 

"  Don't  do  that,  Mrs.  Martin !  Don't  give  away 
your  children !  " 

-  Poor  woman !  the  pen  dropped  from  her  hand  as 
the  knife  had  dropped  from  Abraham's.  She  grasped 
Willie's  arm,  laying,  — 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?     Do  tell  me !  " 

But  Lampeer  had  grasped  the  other  arm,  and 
broke  out  with  — 

"  You  rogue,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Willie's  fine  blue  eyes  turned  quickly  into  Lam- 
peer's  one  muddy  eye. 

**  Let  go  !  "  he  said,  very  quietly  but  very  deter- 
minedly, '*  don't  strike  me,  or  my  father  will  take 
the  law  on  you." 

Lampeer  let  go. 

Just  then  the  groceries  came,  and  a  minute  later, 
Billy  Morton's  wagon  drove  up  with  the  machine, 
and  all  the  other  boys,  who  came  in  and  shook  hands 
with  the  poor  but  delighted  mother  and  her  children. 
I  cannot  tell  you  any  more  about  that  scene.  I  only 
know  that  Lampeer  went  out  angry  and  muttering. 


CHAPTER  X. 


TOMMY   PUFFER. 


WILLIE  was  happy  that  night  He  went 
down  to  the  festival  at  the  Mission. 
There  was  Tommy  Puffer's  soft,  oyster-like  body 
among  the  scholars  of  the  Mission.  He  was 
waiting  for  something  good.  His  mouth  and  eyes 
were  watering.  He  loooked  triumphantly  at  the 
boys  from  the  other  school.  They  wouldn't  get  any- 
thing so  nice.  The  superintendent  announced  that 
no  boy's  name  would  be  called  for  a  paper  bag  of 
"  refreshments "  but  those  who  had  been  present 
two  Sundays.  And  so  poor  starving  Tommy  Puffer 
had  to  carry  his  pudding-bag  of  a  body  home  again 
without  a  chance  to  give  it  an  extra  stuffing. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


AN    ODD    PARTY. 


1  CANNOT  tell  you  about  the  giving  of  the 
broom-machine  to  the  blind  broom-maker;  of 
the  ton  of  coal  to  Parm'ly,  and  of  all  the  other 
things  that,  happened  on  Christmas  Day  when  the 
presents  were  given.  I  must  leave  these  things 
out.  As  for  Aunt  Parm'ly,  she  said  she  did  not 
know,  but  dat  dare  coal  seemed  like  it  come  from 
de  sky. 

But  there  was  an  ample  feast  yet  for  the  boys  at 
the  Sunday-school,  for  many  biscuits,  and  cakes,  and 
pies  had  been  baked.  But  every  time  Willie  looked 
at  the  walking  stick  he  thought  of  "  the  poor,  the 
maimed,  the  lame,  and  the  blind."  And  so  he  and 
Sammy  Bantam  soon  set  the  whole  school,  teachers 
and  all,  afire  with  the  idea  of  inviting  in  the  inmates 
of  the  county  poor-house.  It  was  not  half  so  hard  to 
persuade  the  members  of  the  school  to  do  this  as  it 
was  to  coax  them  to  the  first  move  ;  for  when  people 


An   Odd  Party,  221 

have  found  out  how  good  it  is  to  do  good,  they  like 
to  do  good  again. 

Such  a  company  it  was  !  There  was  old  crazy 
Newberry,  who  had  a  game-bag  slung  about  his  neck, 
and  who  imagined  that  the  little  pebbles  in  it  were 
of  priceless  value.  Old  Dorothy,  who  was  nearly 
eighty,  and  who,  thanks  to  the  meanness  of  the  au- 
thorities, had  not  tasted  any  delicacy,  not  so  much 
as  a  cup  of  tea,  since  she  had  been  in  the  alms- 
house ;  and  there  were  half-idiots,  and  whole  idiots, 
and  sick  people,  and  crippled  people,  armless  peo- 
ple and  legless  people,  blind  people  and  deaf.  Such 
an  assortment  of  men,  women,  and  little  children, 
you  cannot  often  find.  They  were  fed  with  the  good 
things  provided  for  the  Sunday-school  children,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  Tommy  Puffer  and  his  mother. 
For  Tommy  was  bent  on  getting  something  to  eat 
here. 

There  were  plenty  of  people  who  claimed  the 
credit  of  suggesting  this  way  of  spending  the  Christ- 
mas. But  Willie  did  not  say  anything  about  it,  for 
he  remembered  what  Christ  had  said  about  blowing 
a  trumpet  before  you.  But  I  think  Sammy  Bantam 
trumpeted  Willie's  fame  enough. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  who  enjoyed  the  Christ- 


222 


Mr,  Blake^s  Walking- Stick, 


mas  the  most.  But  I  think  the  givers  found  it  more 
blessed  than  the  receivers.  What  talk  Mr.  Blake 
heard  in  his  rounds  I  cannot  tell.  If  you  want  to 
know,  you  must  ask  the  Old  Ebony. 


The  Chicken  Little  Stories. 


I. 


SIMON  AND  THE  GARULY, 


CHICKEN  LITTLE  fixed  herself  up  in  her 
new  rocking  chair,  set  her  mouth  in  a  very 
prim  fashion,  leaned  her  head  on  one  side,  and  be- 
gan to  rock  with  all  her  might,  jerking  her  feet  from 
the  floor  every  time. 

"  I  yish,"  she  began,  "  I  yish  somebody  yould  tell 
some  stories  yat  yould  be  little  for  me  to  hear." 

And  haVing  made  this  speech,  which  was  meant 
as  a  hint  for  me,  she  rocked  harder  than  ever,  nearly 
upsetting  herself  two  or  three  times. 

"  What  shall  it  be  about  ?  "  I  said. 

"  'Bout  some  naughty  boy  or  'nother." 

She  likes  to  hear  of  naughty  boys,  but  not  of 
naughty  girls.  She  thinks  stories  of  naughty  girls 
are  a  little  personal.  And  so,  with  her  chair  going 
and  her  shining  eyes  peering  out  from  under  her 
overhanging  forehead,  I  began 


224  ^^  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

THB»  STORY. 

Simon  was  a  selfish  fel'ow.  He  was  always  willing 
anybody  should  divide  their  good  things  with  him, 
but  was  never  willing,  himself,  to  divide  with  any- 
body else.  He  was  never  willing  to  play  with 
others,  for  fear  he  would  not  be  treated  right.  His 
two  brothers  and  his  sister  had  their  playthings 
together,  but  Simon  would  not  play  with  them,  for 
fear  he  should  not  get  his  rights  in  all  things,  and 
so  he  took  his  little  stock  and  set  up  for  himself. 
His  brothers  and  sister,  of  course,  by  putting  theirs 
together,  had  many  more  than  he.  Then,  too,  by 
working  together,  they  managed  to  fix  up  many  nice 
things.  But  poor  Simon  had  nobody  to  help  him, 
and  nobody  to  play  with  him.  So  he  came  to  feel 
very  bad.  He  thought  every  body  was  angry  with 
him. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  when  the  other  children  were 
laughing  and  shouting 'merrily,  poor  Simon  tried  in  vain 
to  be  happy  by  himself.  Something  in  his  throat  kept 
choking  him. 

"I  guess  it  was  the  cry  that  choked  him/*  broke  in 
the  Small  Chicken.  '^  I  had  a  cry  in  my  throat  yester- 
day. It  was  bigger  than  my  fist,  and  most  choked  me 
to  death,  till  I  let  it  out." 


Simon  and  the  Garuly,  225 

Yes,  that  was  what  hurt  him,  and  presently  he  let  it 
out,  as  you  say,  and  had  a  good,  hard  cry.  Then  gradu- 
ally he  went  off  into  a  sort  of  doze.  Soon  he  felt  some- 
thing strike  him  on  the  head. 

"Wake  up  !  wake  up  !  " 

Simon  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  a  funny,  little,  old 
man  standing  over  him,  who  kept  one  of  his  eyes 
shut  all  the  time,  and  looked  out  of  the  other  with  the 
queerest  twinkle  in  the  world.  He  had  a  knotty  stick 
in  his  hand,  and  was  tapping  Simon  over  the  head  with 
it. 

"What  do  you  want? "  growled  Simon. 

With  that  the  old  man  hit  him  another  sharp  blow 
over  the  head. 

"Get  up,"  he  said,  "and  come  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  where  I  live.     I  am  one  of  the  Garulies." 

Simon  got  to  his  feet,  partly  because  he  was  afraid  of 
another  blow  from  the  cudgel,  and  partly  because  he 
had  a  very  great  desire  to  know  something  of  the  Gam- 
lies. 

"Come  along!  come  along!"  said  the  queer  little 
man,  as  he  gave  Simon  another  tap. 

He  took  the  road  through  the  woods  pasture,  down 
under  Swallow  Hill,  and  then  through  the  blackberry 
patch,  until  they  came  to  the  brook  known  as  "Bee 


226  The  Chicken  Little  Stories. 

Tree  Run."  Here,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  large  sycamore, 
and  among  its  roots,  was  fastened  a  curious  boat,  made 
of  a  large  turtle  shell  turned  upside  down. 

"Get  in  !  get  in  !  "  squealed  the  little  old  Garuly. 

"I  am  too  large,"  said  Simon;  "that  craft  will  sink 
if  I  step  in.'' 

In  an  instant  the  little  man  whirled  round  and  hit 
him  three  tremendous  raps  over  the  head  with  his 
cudgel,  shoiiting,  or  rather  squeaking^ 

"  Smaller  !  smaller  !  smaller  !  " 

The  blows  made  Simon's  head  ring,  but  when  he 
recovered  himself,  he  found  that  the  turtle-shell  boat 
appeared  a  great  deal  larger  than  before.  Not  only 
that,  but  every  thing  about  him  appeared  larger.  He 
soon  discovered,  however,  that  he  was  smaller,  and 
that  that  was  what  made  other  things  seem  larger.  For 
you  know  we  measure  every  thing  by  ourselves. 

"Mamma  don't,"  said  the  Chicken;  "she  measures 
with  a  yard  stick." 

Well,  Simon  prided  himself  on  being  so  big,  and  it 
was  not  pleasant  to  him  to  find  himself  suddenly  be- 
come so  small  that  a  large  rooster  could  have  looked 
down  upon  him.  But  he  did  not  say  any  thing,  for 
fear  of  old  Garuly's  stick,  but  just  got  into  the  boat  as 
soon  as  possible.     The  old  man  got  in,  too,  and  they 


Simon  and  the  Garuly,  227 

were  soon  floating  down  the  stream.  The  brook  seemed 
like  a  river,  and  the  grass  upon  the  banks  was  like  trees, 
to  Simon,  now.  The  old  Garuly  guided  the  boat  over 
the  rapids,  that  seemed  frightful  to  Simon,  and  floated 
it  down  to  where  the  cHffs  were  steep,  and  presently 
came  to  a  place  where  the  water  runs  under  a  large 
rock.  The  old  man  guided  the  queer  craft  into  this 
dark,  cave-like  place,  and  shot  up  to  a  shelving  land- 
ing place. 

"  Get  out !"  he  squeaked. 

Simon  did  as  he  was  commanded. 

"Go  in  !  go  in  !  "  cried  the  Garuly,  pointing  to  a  hole 
in  the  cHfl*. 

"  I  am  too  large,'*  said  Simon. 

And  immediately  the  old  man  struck  him  over  the 
head  three  times,  as  before,  crying, 

"Smaller  !  smaller  !  smaller  !  " 

Simon  now  found  himself  not  more  than  half  as  large 
as  he  was  before.  '  He  went  in  with  the  Garuly,  who 
had  also  grown  smaller.  Inside  there  was  the  daintiest 
chamber,  all  full  of  beautiful  shells  wrought  into  tiny 
articles  of  furniture.  The  floor  was  paved  with  shining 
pebbles,  and  the  room  was  lit  up  by  three  fire-flies  and 
two  glow-worms. 

" How  could  you  make  the  place  so  beautiful?  "  cried 
Simon. 


228  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

"The  Garulies  work  together,"  said  the  old  man, 
sharply. 

The  little  man  told  Simon  to  go  in  through  another 
door,  but  Simon  was  still  too  large  for  that,  and  so  the 
Garuly  again  pounded  him,  crying, 

"Smaller!  smaller!  smaller!" 

Once  in,  Simon  saw  indeed  the  treasures  of  the  Gar- 
uly's  household.  There  were  easy  chairs,  made  of  the 
hulls  of  hickory  nuts ;  hammocks,  made  of  the  inside 
bark  of  the  paw-paw;  wash-bowls,  curiously  car\^ed 
from  the  hulls  of  beech- nuts ;  and  beautiful  curtains, 
of  the  leaves  of  the  silver  poplar.  The  floor  was  paved 
with  the  seeds  of  the  wild  grape,  and  beautifully  car- 
peted with  the  lichens  from  the  beech  and  maple  trees. 
The  beds  were  made  of  a  great  variety  of  mosses,  woven 
together  with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  workmanship. 
There  was  a  bath-tub  made  of  a  mussel  shell,  cut  into 
beautiful  cameo  figures. 

"  How  wonderful !  "  cried  Simon,  clapping  his  hands. 

"The  Garulies  work  together!"  said  the  old  man, 
more  decidedly  than  before. 

Simon  noticed  that  his  own  voice  was  beginning  to 
squeak  like  that  of  the  old  Garuly  himself.  But  after 
seeing  the  interior  of  his  dwelling,  he  would  not  have 
minded  being  changed  into  a  Garuly. 


Simon  and  the  Garuly.  229 

The  old  man  was  now  leading  him  out  through  a  dif- 
ferent entrance.  Then  along  a  path  they  went  until 
they  came  to  a  fence,  the  rails  of  which  seemed  to  Si- 
mon to  be  larger  than  logs.  They  crawled  through 
the  fence,  and  found  themselves  in  a  farm-yard.  The 
chickens  seemed  to  be  larger  than  those  great  birds 
that  geologists  say  once  lived  on  the  earth,  and  that 
were  as  high  as  a  house.  Presently  they  came  to 
a  bee  stand.  The  bees  seemed  to  Simon  to  be  of  im- 
mense size,  and  he  was  greatly  afraid ;  but  the  old  Gar- 
uly spoke  to  the  fierce-looking  sentinel  bee  that  stood 
by  the  door  and  shook  one  of  his  antennae  in  a  friendly 
way. 

"  His  Aunt  Annie  ?  "  said  Chicken  Little.  "  What  do 
you  mean?" 

His  antennae  are  his  feelers,  the  little  hair-like  things 
that  stand  out  from  his  head. 

Now  the  bees  seemed  to  know  the  Garuly,  and  so 
they  let  him  pass  in.  But  poor  Simon  had  to  be 
pounded  down  again  before  he  was  small  enough  to  go 
in.  When  he  got  in,  he  saw  a  world  of  beauty.  Being 
so  small  himself,  and  so  near  to  the  bees,  he  could  see 
how  beautiful  their  eyes  were,  made  up  of  hundreds  of 
little  eyes,  with  little  hairs  growing  out  between  them. 
And  then,  too,  the  honey-comb  seemed  like  great,  gold- 


230  The  Chicken  Little  Stories. 

en  wells,  full  of  honey.  Each  well  seemed  as  large  as 
a  barrel.  They  climbed  up  along  the  sides  of  the 
combs,  and  saw  some  bees  feeding  the  young,  some 
building  cells,  som.e  bringing  in  honey,  some  feeding 
the  queen  bee,  some  clearing  out  the  waste  matter,  and 
others  standing  guard.     They  all  seemed  cheerful. 

"Bees  all  work  together  !  "  piped  the  old  man.  :  "No 
bee  is  selfish.  These  bees  will  not  live  to  eat  this  honey. 
Bees  that  work  hard  in  summer  only  live  to  be  about 
two  months  old.  This  honey  is  stored  for  others.  But 
see  how  happy  they  all  are.  How  much  may  be  done 
by  those  who  work  together  cheerfully." 

Out  of  the  hive  they  went,  and  back  toward  the  Gar- 
uly's  house.  But  the  old  man  turned  aside  to  go  to  an 
ant  hill. 

"  Let's  go  in  here,"  said  the  Garuly. 

"  No,  I  am  too  large,"  said  Simon. 

"  Smaller  !  smaller  !  smaller  !  "  cried  the  Garuly, 
beating  him  over  the  head  again,  until  Simon  was  not 
much  larger  than  the  ants,  and  the  ants  appeared  to  be 
as  large  as  ponies.  Down  the  well-like  hole  they 
climbed,  until  they  entered  the  chambers  of  the  ants. 
Here  all  were  busy,  some  carrying  out  earth,  others 
excavating  new  chambers,  others  caring  for  the  eggs, 
others  bringing  in  food,  while  others  were  clearing  out 


Simon  and  the  Garuly.  231 

the  road.  But  no  one  grumbled,  none  said  that  he 
had  the  heaviest  load. 

"See  !"  cried  the  Garuly,  "the  little  ants  work  to- 
gether. They  have  all  things  in  common.  There  is 
no  selfishness  and  no  quarreling  among  them." 

Just  then  a  wise  old  ant  came  up,  and  hearing  the 
Garuly's  remark,  he  said, 

"  Did  you  never  hear  the 

"story  of  the  selfish  ant? 

"  There  was  once  a  selfish  ant  who  could  never  be 
satisfied.  He  always  thought  he  had  the  hardest  work 
in  the  world.  If  he  carried  burdens,  he  complained 
that  those  who  cared  for  the  eggs  had  the  easiest  time  ; 
and  if  he  had  charge  of  the  eggs  he  wished  to  be  changed 
to  some  other  kind  of  work.  At  last  he  thought  he 
would  set  up  for  himself.  It  was  exceedingly  hard 
work  for  him  to  dig  and  find  his  own  food  with  no  help, 
so  that  half  the  summer  was  gone  before  he  got  a  place 
to  live  in,  and  a  sorry  place  it  was.  Before  he  got  any 
food  laid  by,  the  rain  filled  up  his  house,  and  he  had 
to  spend  another  month  in  digging.  And  so,  with  one 
mishap  and  another,  and  no  one  to  help  him,  the  sum- 
mer was  soon  almost  gone,  and  he  had  no  store  for 
winter.     When  the  first  frost  came,  the  selfish  fellow 


232  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

came  back,  heart-broken  and  crest-fallen,  and  begged  to 
be  taken  into  the  colony  again.  All  winter  long  he  had 
to  eat  the  bread  that  others  had  gathered,  and  he  never 
afterwards  grumbled  because  his  work  was  a  little  harder 
than  that  of  others." 

"You  see,"  said  the  Garuly,  "that  the  ants  work  to- 
gether. What  a  shame  it  is  that  you  should  not  be:able 
even  to  play  with  your  brothers  and  sister  !  " 

And  with  that  the  little  old  man  turned  his  one  eye 
on  Simon,  and  it  shone  like  a  coal  of  fire,  and  Simon 
thought  he  could  feel  it  burning  him.  Just  then  an 
ant  came  up,  who  had  heard  the  conversation,  and 
asked  the  Garuly  what  it  meant. 

"He  will  not  even  play  with  his  brothers,"  said  the 
old  man,  looking  fiercer  than  ever. 

"  Put  him  out ! "  cried  the  ant.  And  then  a  hun- 
dred ants  cried,  "put  him  out ! "  and  they  began  tug- 
ging at  him  with  all  their  might.  One  caught  hold  of 
his  right  foot  and  another  of  his  left,  one  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  another  by  the  head,  and  as  they  were 
nearly  as  big  as  he  was,  they  were  about  to  carry  him 
off  bodily,  when  Simon  suddenly  awoke,  and  started 
up,  to  find  that  instead  of  the  ants  tugging  at  him,  it 
was  the  other  children,  who  had  come  to  awaken  him, 
for  fear  he  would  catch  cold  sleeping  in  the  night  air, 


Simon  and  the  Garuly.  ^33 

and  to  find  that  what  he  thought  was  the  one  fiery  eye 
of  the  Garuly,  was  the  full  moon  shining  through  the 
trees. 

"There,"  said  the  Wee  Chick,  "that  spoils  the  story. 
I  don't  want  it  to  be  a  dream.  What  made  'em  yake 
him  up  so  twick?" 

"Was  he  better  afterwards?"  said  Fairy. 

"  Yes,  for  the  very  next  day  he  moved  to  the  same 
playhouse  with  the  rest  of  the  children,  and  whenever 
he  was  selfish  he  would  look  around  to  see  if  the  old 
Garuly  was  looking  at  him  out  of  one  eye." 


11. 

LAZY   LARKIN    AND  THE  JOBLILIES. 

WE  have  oak  trees  and  green  grass  at  The 
Nest,  what  many  children  in  crowded  cities 
do  not  get.  Three  little  girls  at  the  Nest  love  to  play  in 
the  green  grass,  with  some  pet  chickens,  and  a  white, 
pink-eyed  rabbit  for  companions.  Now,  you  must  know 
that  I  am  quite  as  fond  of  the  oaks  and  the  grass  and 
the  blue  sky  as  Sunbeam,  or  Fairy,  or  the  brown-faced 
Little  Chick.  And  so  it  happens,  when  the  day  is  hot, 
and  the  lazy  breezes  will  not  keep  the  house  cool,  that 
I  just  move  my  chair  and  table  out  by  the  lilac  bush 
that  grows  under  the  twin  oaks,  and  then  I  think  I  can 
write  better.  And  there  I  sit  and  watch  the  trains 
coming  and  going  to  and  from  the  great,  bustling  city, 
only  a  dozen  miles  away,  or  listen  to  the  singing  of 
the  robins  while  I  write. 

I  was  sitting  thus  one  dull,  hot  afternoon,  trying  to 
write ;  but  it  was  a  lazy  day ;  the  robins  had  forgotten 


236  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

to  sing,  the  little  sparrows  that  live  up  in  the  oaks,  had 
stopped  twittering,  and  the  very  honey  bees  were  hum- 
ming drowsily,  when  Chicken  Little  came  up  with  a 
wreath  of  white  clover  around  her  head,  and  begged 
for  a  story.  The  older  children  wanted  one,  also,  and 
so  I  had  to  tell  one.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  a  little 
lazy  myself,  and  so  I  willingly  sat  down  in  the  grass 
among  the  children  and  began. 

"  Shall  I  tell  about  a  lazy  girl  about  as  big  as  Chick- 
en Little?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  said ;  "  tell  about  a  lazy  boy  that  was 
as  big  as  Sunbeam." 

Sunbeam  laughed  at  this,  and  nodded  her  head  for 
me  to  go  on. 

And  so  I  began  thus  :  "  Little  lazy  Larkin  laughed 
and  leaped,  or  longed  and  lounged  the  livelong  day, 
and  loved  not  labor,  but  liked  leisure." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  cried  the  Wee  Chick ;  "  that  sounds  so 
funny ! " 

"It's  got  so  many  I's,  that's  the  reason,"  said 
Fairy. 

"Tell  it  right,"  said  Sunbeam. 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,."  Larkin  was  an  indolent  juve- 
nile, fond  of  mirthfulness  and  cachinatory  and  saltatory 
exercises  —  " 


Lazy  Larkin  and  the  Joblilies.  237 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  !  "  said  Fairy,  just 
ready  to  get 'angry. 

"Sech  awful  big  words!"  cried  the  Little  Pullet; 
"  they  is  as  big  —  as  big  as  —  as  —  as  big  as  punkins  ! " 

*•  I  guess  that's  what  they  call  hifalutin,"  said  Sun- 
beam; "now  do  tell  it  right." 

And  so  I  told  it  "right." 

Larkin  was  an  idle  fellow,  and  was  so  utterly 
good-for-nothing,  that  he  came  to  be  called  "  Lazy 
Larkin."  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  get  a  bad  name 
when  you  are  young.  It  sticks  to  you  like  a  sand 
burr.  Larkin  would  neither  work  nor  study.  He 
did  not  even  like  good,  hearty  play,  for  any 
great  length  of  time,  but  was  very  fond  of  the  play 
that  boys  call  miimble-the-peg,  because,  as  he  said, 
you  could  sit  down  to  play  it.  He  fished  a  little, 
but  if  the  fish  did  not  bite  at  the  first  place,  he  sat 
down ;  he  would  not  move,  but  just  sat  and  waited 
for  them  to  come  to  him. 

He  had  gone  out  to  Bass  Lake  to  fish,  one  day, 
in  company  with  some  other  boys,  but  they  had  put 
him  out  of  the  boat  because  he  was  too  lazy  to  row 
when  his  turn  came.  The  others  were  rowing  about, 
trolling  for  pickerel,  and  he  sat  down  on  a  point  of 
land  called  "  Duck  Point,"  and  went  to  fishing.     As 


238  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

the  fish  would  not  bite,  he  sat  looking  at  them  in  the 
clear  water,  and  wishing  that  he  was  a  fish,  —  they 
Jiad  such  a  lazy  time  of  it,  lying  there  in  the  sun,  or 
paddling  idly  around  through  the  water.  He  saw  a 
large  pickerel  lying  perfectly  still  over  a  certain  spot 
near  the  shore.  When  other  fish  came  near  the 
pickerel,  it  darted  out  and  drove  them  off,  and  then 
paddled  back  to  the  same  place  again.  Larkin 
dropped  his  bait  near  by,  but  the  fish  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  it,  and,  indeed,  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  lie  still  in  the  same  place. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  pickerel,"  said  the  lazy  fellow ; 
"  I  wouldn't  have  to  carry  in  wood  or  pull  weeds  out 
of  the  garden,  or  feed  the  chickens,  or  get  the  mul- 
tiplication table,  or —  or  —  do  anything  else;"  and 
he  gave  one  vast  yawn,  stretching  his  mouth  so  wide, 
and  keeping  it  open  so  long,  that  it  really  seemed  as 
if  he  never  would  get  it  together  again.  When  it 
did  shut,  his  eyes  shut  with  it,  for  the  fellow  was  too 
lazy  to  hold  them  open. 

"  Ha  ha  !  lazy  fellow !  lazy  fellow  !  " 

Larkin  heard  some  one  say  this,  and  raised  up  his 
head  to  see  who  it  was.  Not  finding  any  one  about, 
he  thought  he  must  have  been  dreaming.  So  he  just 
gave  one  more  yawn,  opening  his  mouth  like  the  lid 


Lazy  Larkin  and  the  J^ob lilies.  239 

of  an  old  tin  coffee  pot,  and  keeping  it  open  nearly 
a  minute.  Then  he  stretched  himself  upon  the  grass 
again. 

"Ha!  ha!  lazy  fellow  !  lazy  fellow! '' 

This  time  there  seemed  to  be  half  a  dozen  voices, 
but  Larkin  felt  too  lazy  to  look  up. 

*•'  Ha  !  ha !  very  lazy  fellow  !  " 

Larkin  just  got  one  eye  open  a  little,  and  looked 
around  to  see  where  the  sound  came  from.  After  a 
while,  he  saw  a  dozen  or  more  very  odd,  queer-look- 
ing creatures,  sitting  on  the  broad,  round  leaves  of 
the  water-lilies,  that  floated  on  the  surface  of  the 
lake.  These  little  people  had  white  caps,  for  all  the 
world  like  the  white  lily  blossoms  that  were  bobbing 
up  and  down  around  them.  In  fact,  it  took  Larkin 
some  time  to  make  out  clearly  that  they  were  not 
lilies.  But  finally  he  saw  their  faces  peeping  out, 
and  noticed  that  they  had  no  hands,  but  only  fins 
instead.  Then  he  noticed  that  their  coats  were 
beautifully  mottled,  like  the  sides  of  the  pickerel, 
and  their  feet  flattened  out,  like  a  fish's  tail.  Soon 
he  saw  that  others  of  the  same  kind  were  coming  up, 
all  dripping,  from  the  water,  and  taking  their  places 
on  the  leaves ;  and  as  each  new  comer  arrived,  the 
others  kept  saying, 


240  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

"  Ha  !  ha !  lazy  fellow  !  very  lazy  fellow  ! '' 

And  then  the  others  would  look  at  him,  and  shake 
their  speckled  sides  with  laughter,  and  say,  *'  Lazy 
fellow  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

Poor  Larkin  was  used  to  being  laughed  at,  but  it 
was  provoking  to  be  laughed  at  by  these  queer-look- 
ing folks,  sitting  on  the  lilies  in  the  water.  Soon  he 
saw  that  there  were  nearly  a  hundred  of  them  gathered. 

"  Come  on,  Joblilies  ! "  cried  one  of  them,  who 
carried  a  long  fish-bone,  and  seemed  to  be  leader ; 
"  let's  make  a  Joblily  of  him." 

Upon  that  the  whole  swarm  of  them  came  ashore. 
The  leader  stuck  his  fish-bone  in  Larkin,  and  made 
him  yell.  Then  they  all  set  up  another  laugh,  and 
another  cry  of  ^'  lazy  fellow  !  " 

"  Being  me  three  grains  of  silver-white  sand  from 
the  middle  of  the  lake,''  said  the  leader;  and  two 
of  them  jumped  into  the  water  and  disappeared. 

"  Now  fetch  three  blades  of  dry  grass  from  the 
lining  of  the  kingfisher's  nest,"  he  said ;  and  imme- 
diately two  others  were  gone. 

When  the  four  returned,  the  leader  dropped  the 
grains  of  sand  in  Larkin's  eyes,  saying, 

**  Three  grains  of  silver  sand, 
From  the  Joblily's  hand  ! 


Lazy  Larkin  and  the  J^ob lilies,  241 

Where  shall  the  Joblily  lie, 

When  the  young  owl  learns  to  fly  ? " 

Then  they  all  jumped  upon  him  and  stamped,  but 
Larkin  could  not  move  hand  or  foot.  In  fact,  he 
found  that  his  hands  were  flattening  out,  like  fins. 
The  leader  then  put  the  three  blades  of  grass  in  Lar- 
kin's  mouth,  and  said, 

"  Eat  a  dry  blade  !  eat  a  dry  blade  I 
From  the  nest  that  the  kingfisher  made  I 
What  will  the  Joblilies  do, 
When  the  old  owl  cries  tu-whoo  ?  " 

And  then  the  whole  party  set  up  such  a  cry  of  "  tu- 
whoo  !  tu-whoo  ! "  that  Larkin  was  frightened  beyond 
measure  j  and  they  caught  him  and  rolled  him  over 
rapidly,  until  he  found  himself  falling  with  a  great  splash 
into  the  water.  On  rising  to  the  surface,  he  saw  that 
he  was  changed  into  a  Joblily  himself. 

Then  the  whole -party  broke  out  singing, 

"  When  the  sun  shines  the  Joblilies  roam ; 

When  the  storm  comes  we  play  with  the  foam ; 
When  the  owl  hoots  Joblilies  fly  home !  " 

When  they  had  sung  this,  they  all  went  under  the 
water  ;  and  the  leader,  giving  Larkin  a  thrust  with  his 
fish-bone,  cried  out,  "  Come  along  I "  and  lazy  Larkin 


242  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

had  nothing  to  do  but  to  swim  after  them.  Once  undei 
the  water,  the  scene  was  exceedingly  beautiful.  The 
great  umbrella-like  leaves  of  the  lilies  made  spots  of 
shadow  in  the  water  and  on  the  pebbles  of  the  bottom, 
while  the  streaks  of  sunshine  that  came  down  between 
flecked  every  thing  with  patches  of  glorious  light,  just 
as  you  have  seen  the  hills  and  valleys  made  glorious  by 
alternate  patches  of  light  and  shade,  produced  by  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds.  And  the  tall  lily  stems,  in  the 
soft  light,  appeared  to  be  pillars,  while  the  great  variety 
of  sea-weed,  that  wound  about  them  in  strange  festoons, 
was  glorious  beyond  description.  There  were  beauti- 
ful bass  turning  their  sides  up  to  the  sun,  and  darting 
about  through  these  strange,  weird  scenes,  seeming  to 
enjoy  their  glorious  abode. 

"  You  have  an  easy  time  of  it,  no  doubfe,"  said  Lar- 
kin,  to  one  of  these  fish. 

"  Easy  time  of  it,  indeed  !  I  have  rather  a  happy 
time  of  it,  because  I  have  plenty  to  do ;  but  you  are 
a  strange  Joblily  if  you  do  not  know  that  I  have  any 
thing  but  an  easy  time  of  it.  Chasing  minnows,  jump- 
ing three  feet  out  of  water  after  a  butterfly,  catching 
wigglers  and  mosquitoes,  and  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
for  unlucky  grasshoppers  that  may  chance  to  fall  in  my 
way ;  all  these  are  not  easy.     I  tell  you,  there  is  no 


Lazy  Larkin  and  the  yoblilies.  243 

family  of  our  social  position  that  has  more  trouble  to 
earn  a  living  than  the  bass  family." 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  Joblily,  giving  another  punch 
with  his  fish-bone ;  and  Larkin  travelled  on. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  log  with  something  grow- 
ing on  it. 

"What  beautiful  moss  ! " 

"Moss,  indeed!"  said  one  of  the  Joblilies;  "that 
is  a  colony  of  small  animals,  all  fast  to  one  stem." 

"They  have  an  easy  time  of  it,  I  suppose,"  said  La- 
zy Larkin ;  "  they  don''t  have  to  travel,  for  they  cannot 
move." 

"True,  but  these  beautiful,  transparent  moss  animals 
have  to  get  their  living  by  catching  insects  so  small  that 
you  cannot  see  them.  They  have  great  numbers  of 
little  fingers  or  feelers  that  are  going  all  the  time." 

Larkin  touched  one,  and  it  immediately  drew  itself 
in,  —  really  swallowed  itself;  for  these  little  things  take 
this  way  of  saving  themselves  from  harm. 

And  so  Larkin  swam  on,  and  found  that  it  was  a  busy 
world  beneath  the  lake.  He  saw  mussels  slowly  crawl- 
ing through  the  sand;  he  found  that  the  pickerel, 
which  he  had  supposed  idle,  was  really  standing  guard 
over  her  nest,  and  fanning  the  water  with  her  fins  all 
day  long,  that  a  current  of  fresh  water  might  be  sup- 


244  Th^  Chicken  Little  Stories.  - 

plied  to  her  eggs.     And  all  the  time  the  Joblilies  kept 
singing,— 

•  "  Work  !  work ! 
Never  shirk ! 
There  is  work  for  you, 
Work  for  all  to  do  ! 
Happy  they  who  do  it, 
They  that  shirk  shall  rue  it !  " 

And  after  their  long  swim  around  the  lake,  the  Job- 
lilies  came  back  to  Duck  Point  again,  and  climbed  out 
on  the  lily  leaves.  No  sooner  had  Larkin  seated  him- 
self with  the  rest,  than  he  heard  a  great  owl  cry,  "  Tu- 
whit  !  tu-whoo  !  '* 

Immediately  the  Joblilies  leaped  into  the  air,  and  the 
whole  hundred  of  them  dashed  into  the  water  like  so 
many  bull-frogs,  crying,  as  they  came  down, 

"  What  shall  the  Joblily  do, 
When  the  great  owl  cries  tu-whoo  ?  " 

Larkin  looked  around  suddenly  to  see  whither  they 
had  gone,  but  could  discover  no  trace  of  them.  A 
moment  after,  he  found  himself  sitting  under  the  same 
tree  that  he  was  under  when  the  Joblilies  came  for  him. 
The  boys  had  gone,  and  he  was  forced  to  walk  home 
alone.     He  thought  carefully  over  his  trip  with  the  Job- 


Lazy  Larkin  and  the  ^ob lilies,  245 

lilies,  and,  I  am  glad  to  say,  gradually  learned  to  be 
more  industrious,  though  it  took  him  a  long  while  to 
overcome  his  lazy  habits,  and  still  longer  to  get  rid  of 
the  name  of  Lazy  Larkin.  But  he  remembered  the 
song  of  the  Joblilies,  and  I  trust  you  will  not  forget  it : 

"Work!  work! 
Never  shirk ! 
There  is  work  for  you, 
Work  for  all  to  do  ! 
Happy  they  who  do  it, 
They  that  shirk  shall  rue  it  1 " 


III. 


THE  PICKANINNY. 


IT  was  a  rather  warm  day  in  autumn.  Aunt  Cheerie 
had  given  the  sewing  machine  and  the  piano  a  holi- 
day, and  was  sitting  in  the  woodshed,  paring  apples  for 
preserves.  Wherever  Aunt  Cheerie  is  the  children 
were  sure  to  be ;  and  so  there  was  Sunbeam,  knife  in 
hand,  and  Fairy,  cutting  a  paring  something  less  than 
half  an  inch  thick,  while  the  dear  little  Chicken  was 
wiping  apples  for  the  others  to  pare,  and  little  Tow- 
head,  baby-brother,  was  trying  to  upset  the  peach-box, 
in  which  were  a  couple  of  pet  chickens,  that  were  hatched 
out  too  late,  and  that  had  to  be  kept  in-doors  to  se- 
cure them  from  Jack  Frost.  For  you  must  know  that 
at  "The  Nest"  Sunbeam  is  called  the  "Old  Hen." 
That  is,  she  has  charge  of  the  chickens.  They  know 
her  so  well,  that  when  she  feeds  them  they  fly  up  on 
her  shoulders  and  eat  out  of  her  hands.  And  if  there 
is  any  unfortunate  one,  it  is  well  cared  for.  One  poor, 
little  wayward  pullet  wandered  into  our  neighbor's  gar- 


The  Pickaninny,  247 

den.  She  was  very  naughty,  doubtless,  but  she  got 
severely  punished ;  for  our  neighbor  thinks  a  great  deal 
of  his  garden,  and  not  much  of  chickens  unless  they 
are  fricasseed.  He  shot  at  our  little  runaway  pullet, 
and  the  poor  thing  came  home  dragging  a  broken  and 
useless  leg.  Now,  if  any  chicken  ever  had  good  care, 
our  little  "  Lamey  "  has.  After  weary  weeks  of  suffer- 
ing in  hot  weather,  it  is  at  last  able  to  walk  on  both 
feet,  though  the  broken  leg  is  sadly  crooked.  The 
children  do  not  object  to  having  the  other  chickens 
killed  for  the  table,  but  little  Lamey' s  life  is  insured.  I 
wouldn't  dare  kill  it.  There  would  be  a  rebellion  in  the 
house. 

But  how  did  I  get  to  talking  about  chickens  ?  I  was 
going  to  say  that  when  I  came  home,  and  found  the 
folks  paring  apples,  I  went  out  in  the  shed,  too,  and 
sat  down  by  the  Little  Chick. 

And  Chicken  Little  jerked  her  head  and  looked  mis- 
chievously out  of  her  bright  eyes,  and  said  :  "  See  how 
nice  we  is  peelin'  apples.  We's  makin'  peserves,  we 
is ;  *cause  they  is.good  to  eat,  they  is.  And  you  mus' 
tell  me  a  story,  you  mus',  'cause  I'm  a-helpin'  Aunt 
Cheerie,  I  am." 

For  you  must  know  that  the  Small  Chick  is  not  very 
polite,  and  doesn't  say  "please,"  when  she  can  help  it. 


248  The  Chicken  Little  Stories. 

"Lend  us  a  hand  at  the  apples,  too,"  said  Aunt 
Cheerie. 

"  No,  I  can't  tell  stories  and  pare  apples,  too." 

"  Does  you  need  your  fingers  to  tell  stories  wid,  like 
the  dumbers  that  we  heard  talk  without  saying  any 
thing?" 

Chicken  Small  had  been  to  an  exhibition  of 'Prof. 
Gillett's  deaf  and  dumb  pupils. 

"Well,  no,"  I  said;  "but  you  see.  Chicken,  I  never 
could  make  my  tongue  and  my  fingers  go  at  the  same 
time." 

"  I  should  think  you  had  never  done  much  with  your 
fingers,  then,"  said  Aunt  Cheerie ;  "  for  I  never  knew 
your  tongue  to  be  still,  except  when  you  were  asleep." 

I  felt  a  little  anxious  to  change  the  subject,  and  so 
began  the  story  at  once. 

"Little  Sukey  Gray  — " 

"What  a  funny  name  !  "  cried  the  fairy. 

Yes,  and  a  funny  girl  was  Sukey  Gray.  She  had  yel- 
low hair  that  was  tied  up  in  an  old-fashioned  knot,  be- 
hind, though  she  was  'bnly  eleven  years  old ;  for  you 
must  know  that  Sukey  lived  in  a  part  of  the  country 
where  chignons  and  top-knots  of  the  latest  style  were 
unknown.  Now  Sukey' s  way  of  doing  up  her  hair  in 
a  great  knot,  behind,  with  an  old-fashioned  tuck  comb. 


The  Pickaninny.  ^249 

was  not  pretty.  But  I  think  it  was  quite  as  handsome 
as  the  monstrous  big  cabbages  that  you  can  see  on  the 
ladies'  heads  on  Lake  street  in  Chicago.  But  Susan 
Gray  Hved  in  what  was  called  the  "  White-Oak  Flats ; " 
a  region  sometimes  called  the  "  Hoop-pole  country.'* 
It  was  not  the  most  enlightened  place  in  the  world,  for 
there  was  no  school,  except  for  a  short  time  in  winter, 
and  the  people  were  very  superstitious,  believing  that 
if  they  carried  a  hoe  through  the  house,  or  broke  a 
looking-glass,  somebody  "would  die  before  long,"  and 
thinking  that  a  screech-owl's  scream  and  the  howling 
of  a  dog  were  warnings;  and  that  potatoes  must  be 
planted  in  the  "  dark  of  the  moon,"  because  they  grew 
under  ground,  and  corn  in  the  "  light  of  the  moon," 
because  it  grew  above  ground ;  and  that  hogs  must  be 
killed  in  the  increase  of  the  moon,  to  keep  the  pork 
from  frying  away  to  gravy  \ 

As  Sukey  had  always  lived  in  the  White  Oak  Flats, 
she  did  not  know  that  they  were  dreary,  for  she  was 
always  happy,  doing  her  work  cheerfully.  But  one  of 
Susan's  cousins,  who  lived  a  hundred  miles  away,  had 
made  her  a  visit.  Tliis  cousin,  like  Sukey,  lived  in  the 
country,  but  she  had  plenty  of  books  and  had  read 
many  curious  and  wonderful  things,  with  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  delight  Sukey. 


250  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

But  when  Cousin  Annie  was  gone,  Sukey  found  the 
Flats  a  dreary  place.  She  wished  there  were  some  pa- 
godas, such  as  they  have  in  India,  or  that  there  were 
some  cannibals  hving  near  her.  She  thought  if  she  were 
rich,  she  would  buy  an  omnibus,  with  four  "blaze-faced," 
sorrel  horses,  to  drive  for  her  own  amusement.  She 
got  tired  of  the  pumpkins  and  cabbages,  and  longed  for 
grizzly  bears  and  red  Indians.  She  hated  to  wash  dishes 
and  feed  the  chickens,  but  thouglit  she  would  Hke  to 
be  a  slave  on  a  coffee  plantation  in  Ceylon. 

"Oh,  dear  !  "  she  sighed,  "I  wish  I  was  out  of  the 
Hoop-pole  country.  There  is  nothing  beautiful  or  cu- 
rious in  these  fiats.  I  am  tired  of  great  yellow  sunflow- 
ers and  hollyhocks  and  pumpkin  blossoms.  I  wish  I 
could  see  something  curious  or  beautiful." 

Now,  isn't  it  strange  that  any  little  girl  should  talk  so, 
with  plenty  of  birds  and  trees  and  sunshine  ?  But  so 
it  is  with  most  of  us.  We  generally  refuse  to  enjoy 
what  is  in  our  reach,  and  long  for  something  that  we 
cannot  get.  Just  as  Chicken  Little,  here,  always  wants 
milk  when  there  is  none,  and  always  asks  for  tea  when 
you  offer  her  milk. 

"Well,  'cause  I'm  firsty,  that's  the  reason,"  said  the 
Chicken. 

Now,  when  Sukey  said  this,  she  was  up  in  the  loft^ 


The  Pickaninny.  251 

or  second  story,  if  you  could  Ccall  it  story,  of  her  father*s 
house.  She  sat  on  a  bench,  looking  out  of  the  gable 
window  at  the  old  stick  chimney,  made  by  building  a 
square  cob-house  arrangement  of  sticks  of  wood,  tapering 
toward  the  top,  and  plastering  it  with  clay.  The  top  of 
the  chimney  was  surmounted  by  a  barrel  with  both  ends 
open,  through  which  the  smoke  climbed  lazily  up  into 
the  air.  Near  by  stood  an  oak  tree,  in  which  a  jay 
bird  was  screaming  and  dancing  in  a  jerky  way.  Sukey 
then  looked  away  into  the  blue  sky,  and  the  clouds 
seemed  to  become  pagodas,  and  palm  trees,  and  gold- 
en ships  floating  drowsily  away.  All  at  once  she  heard 
somebody  say,  in  a  queer,  bird-like  voice,  — 

"  Pray,  look  this  way,  little  Sukey  Gray.  May  I 
make  bold  to  say  you  are  looking  grum  to-day.  You 
neither  laugh  nor  play ;  now,  what's  the  reason,  pray  ?  '* 

Sukey  started  up  to  see  where  this  funny  jingle 
came  from.  There,  in  the  oak  tree,  where  the  jay- 
bird had  stood  a  few  minutes  before,  was  a  queer- 
looking  little  chap,  in  blue  coat  and  pants,  with  a  top- 
knot cap  and  a  rather  sharp  nose.  He  looked  a  lit- 
tle like  a  jay-bird,  but  had  a  most  comical  face  and 
blinkey  eyes,  and  brought  his  words  out  in  short  jerks, 
making  them  rhyme  in  an  odd  sort  of  jingle.  And 
all  the  time  he  was  dancing  and  laughing  and  turn- 


252  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

ing  rapid  somersaults,  as  if  the  little  blue  coat  could 
hardly  hold  so  much  fun. 

"  Well,  now,"  broke  out  Sukey,  "  you  are  the  only 
curious  thing  in  all  the  Hoop-pole  country.  I've 
been  wishing  for  something  odd  or  strange,  and  I  am 
glad  you  have  come,  for  there  is  nothing  beautiful  or 
curious  in  all  the  White  Oak  Flats." 

"Why,  Sukey.  Gray!  What's  that  you  say?  You 
must  be  blind  as  a  pumpkin  rind,  or  a  leather- 
winged  bat ;  this  White  Oak  Flat  is  just  the  place  to 
look  the  beautiful  right  in  the  face.  Now  come 
wdth  me,  and  we  will  see  that  the  little  bee,  or  this 
great  oak  tree,  or  the  bright,  blue  skies,  are  beauti- 
ful things,  if  we  open  our  eyes." 

All  the  while  the  little  fellow  was  getting  off  this 
queer  speech,  he  was  swinging  and  tumbling  along 
up  the  great  limb  that  reached  out  towards  the  win- 
dow at  which  Sukey  sat.  By  the  time  he  had  fin- 
ished it,  he  was  standing  on  the  window  sill,  where 
he  had  alighted  after  a  giddy  somersault.  He 
laughed  heartily,  —  so  heartily  that  Sukey  laughed, 
too,  though  she  could  not  tell  why.  Then  he  took 
off  his  cap,  and  said, 

"  A  pickaninny,  at  your  service,  Sukey  Gray ! 
Will  you  take  a  walk  with  me  to-day  ?     Now  jump, 


The  Pickaninny,  253 

while  you  may! ''  and  he  took  hold  of  her  two  hands 
and  jumped,  and  she  jumped  after  him,  feeling  as 
light  as  a  feather. 

They  alighted  on  the  branch  of  the  oak  tree.  He 
immediately  began  to  pull  lichens  off  the  bark,  and 
show  Sukey  how  curious  they  were.  He  showed  her 
how  curiously  one  kind  of  lichen  grew  upon  another, 
omitting  its  own  stalk  and  leaves,  and  making  use  of 
those  of  the  other.  Then  he  laughed  at  her,  be- 
cause he  had  found  curious  things  within  ten  feet  of 
her  window. 

Next  he  took  her  to  her  own  rosebush,  and  showed 
her  how  the  limbs  were  swelled  in  some  places. 
Then  breaking  off  the  twig,  he  placed  it  against  a 
tree,  and  began  to  pound  it  with  his  fist  But  his 
little  arm  was  not  strong,  and  he  had  to  strike  it 
several  times  before  he  could  break  it  open.  When 
it  did  fly  open,  Sukey  started  back  at  seeing  it  full 
of  plant  lice,  or  aphides. 

"  Now,"  said  the  pickaninny,  "  in  this  little  house 
what  curious  things  !  These  little  aphides  have  no 
wings.  But  their  great  great-grandfathers,  and 
their  great  great-grandmothers  had.  Their  mothers 
and  grandmothers  and  great-grandmothers  had  none, 
and  their  children  will  have  none,  and  their  grand- 


254  The  Chicken  Little  Stories. 

children  will  have  none,  and  their  great-grand 
children  will  have  none ;  but  their  great-great- 
grandchildren will  have  wings  again,  for  every  ninth 
generation  can  fly." 

"  How  curious  ! "  said  Sukey. 

Then  the  pickaninny  found  a  swamp  blackbird's 
nest,  and  showed  her  how  curiously  it  was  made; 
then  they  climbed  down  the  chimney  of  the  school- 
house,  and  he  showed  her  how  the  chimney  swallow 
glued  her  nest  together ;  and  he  coaxed  a  katydid 
to  fiddle  with  his  wings,  that  she  might  see  that.  At 
last  they  entered  the  pumpkin  patch. 

"Well,"  said  Sukey,  "there's  nothing  curious  here. 
I  know  all  about  pumpkins." 

With  that  the  pickaninny  commenced  to  jump  up 
and  down  on  one,  but  he  was  so  light  that  he  could 
not  break  it.  He  kept  jumping  higher  and  higher ; 
now  he  was  bouncing  up  ten  feet  in  the  air,  then 
fifteen,  then  twenty,  until  at  last  he  leaped  up  as 
high  as  the  top  of  the  oak  tree,  and  coming  down, 
he  struck  his  heels  through  the  pumpkin.  Sukey 
laughed  till  the  tears  ran  off  her  chin.  The  picka- 
ninny thrust  his  arm  in  and  took  out  a  seed.  Then 
breaking  that  open,  he  showed  Susan  that  the  inside 
of  a  pumpkin  seed  was  two  white  leaves,  the  first 


TJie  Pickaninny,  255 

leaves  of  the  young  pumpkin  vine.  And  so  an  hour 
passed  while  the  pickaninny  showed  her  many  curi- 
ous things,  of  which  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you. 

At  last  he  said,  "  Now,  Sukey  Gray,  pray  let  me 
fly  away ! " 

"I  shall  not  keep  you  if  you  want  to  go,  "  said 
Susan. 

"  Then  pluck  the  mistletoe,  and  let  me  go." 

"  What  do  you  mean .? "  she  asked. 

"  I  cannot  go  until  you  pluck  the  mistletoe." 

Sukey  pulled  a  piece  of  mistletoe  from  the  limb 
where  they  were  standing,  and  he  bowed  and  said, 

"  Now,  Sukey  Gray,  good-day.  Don't  waste  your 
sighs,  but  use  your  eyes." 

With  that  he  leaped  into  the  air.  Susy  looked  up, 
but  there  was  only  the  blue  jay,  crying,  "Jay !  jay  1 
jay !  "  in  a  peevish  way,  and  herself  looking  out  the 
window. 

"What  a  wonderful  country  the  White  Oak  Flats 
must  be,"  she  said.  And  the  more  she  used  her 
eyes,  the  more  she  was  satisfied  that  the  Hoop-pole 
country  was  the  most  wonderful  in  the  world. 

"  I  wish  I  lived  in  the  White  Oak  Hoops,"  said 
the  Wee  Chick. 


IV. 

THE   GREAT    PANJANDRtJM   HIMSELF. 

CHICKEN  LITTLE  was  a  picture,  sitting  on 
the  floor  by  the  window,  with  a  stereoscope  — 
"  the  thing  'at  you  look  fru,"  she  calls  it  —  in  her 
hand,  and  the  pictures  scattered  about  her. 

Now  some  of  the  children  think  that  I  have  been 
"  making  up  "  Chicken  Little,  and  that  there  is  no 
such  a  being.  A  few  weeks  ago,  after  I  had  been 
talking  to  a  great  church  full  of  people,  there  came 
up  to  me  a  very  sweet  little  girl. 

"  Do  you  write  stories  in  The  Little  Corporal  ? " 
she  asked. 

When  I  told  her  I  did,  she  looked  up,  and  asked, 
earnestly,  "Well,  is  there  any  real,  live  Chicken 
Little  ? " 

Now  there  may  be  others  of  the  great  army  of 
The  Little  Corporal  that  want  to  know  whether  there 
is  any  "real,  live  Chicken  Little."  I  tell  you  there 
is.     If  you  could  see  her  merry,  mischievous  face  \  if 


The  Great  Panjandrum  Himself.  257 

you  could  see  her  when  she  stands  up  on  my  shoul- 
ders like  a  monkey ;  if  you  had  heard  her,  yesterday, 
explain  that  God  could  see  in  the  stove  when  all  the 
doors  were  shut ;  if  you  could  see  how  she  always 
manages  to  do  what  you  don't  want  her  to  do,  and 
then  find  a  good  excuse  for  it  afterwards ;  you  would 
think  there  was  a  live,  real  "  Chicken  Little."  If  you 
could  have  seen  the  old,  funny  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
when  I  found  her  with  the  stereoscope,  you  would 
have  thought  she  was  a  real,  live  Chicken,  sure 
enough. 

"  Now,  then,  you've  got  to  tell  me  a  story,"  she 
said. 

"  '  Got  to '  don't  tell  stories." 

"  Well,  p'ease  tell  me  one,  then." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sunbeam,  peeping  in,  '^  about  the 
Great  Panjandrum  himself." 

"  Ah !  you  little  mink,"  I  said,  "  how  did  you  get 
hold  of  my  secret  ? " 

"Why,  I  knew  it  all  the  time." 

Now,  you  see,  the  case  was  this ;  I  did  not  know 
that  the  children  understood  where  I  got  the  names 
of  the  Garuly  and  the  Jobllly,  and  the  Pickaninny 
from.  But  Sunbeam,  who  dips  a  little  here  and  there 
into  a  great  many  books,  and  who  never  forgets  any 


25S  The  Chicken  Little  Stories. 

thing  she  hears,  had  somehow  gotten  hold  of  my  se- 
cret. It  was  this.  There  was  a  man  who  could 
repeat  whatever  he  read  once.  One  of  his  friends 
undertook  to  write  something  that  he  could  not  re- 
member. So  he  wrote  nonsense,  and  the  man  with 
the  long  memory  failed  to  remember  it.  The  non- 
sense, which  I  read  when  I  was  a  boy,  is,  if  I  remember 
it  rightly,  as  follows : 

*'  She  w^ent  into  the  garden  to  cut  a  cabbage  leaf 
to  make  an  apple  pie;  and  a  great  she-bear  coming 
down  the  street  thrust  his  head  into  the  shop.  '  What, 
no  soap  ? '  So  he  died,  and  she  very  imprudently 
married  the  barber.  And  there  were  present  the 
Garulies,  and  the  Joblilies,  and  the  Pickaninnies,  and 
the  Great  Panjandrum  himself,  with  his  little,  round 
button-at-the-top ;  and  they  all  fell  to  playing  the 
game  of  *  Catch-as-catch-can,'  till  the  gunpowder  ran 
out  at  the  heels  of  their  boots." 

Now  you  see  where  the  Garulies  and  the  Joblilies 
and  the  Pickaninnies  came  from.  And  that's  why 
the  children  thought  the  next  story  should  be  about 
the  Great  Panjandrum.     And  so  I  began: 

I  was  wandering,  one  day,  in  the  Land  of  Nod,  in 
that  part  of  it  known  as  the  state  of  Dreams,  and  in 
the  county  of  Sleep,  and  in  Doze  township,  not  far 


The  Great  Fanjaiidrum  Himself.  259 

from  the  village  of  Shuteyetown,  in  Sleepy  Hollow, 
where  stands  the  Church  of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  on 
the  corner  of  Snoring  Lane  and  Sluggard  Avenue, 
near  Slumber  Hall,  owned  by  the  Independent 
Association  of  Sleepy-headed  Nincompoops. 

"  What  a  place !  "  said  Fairy. 

Well,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  I  was  walking  through 
Sleepy  Hollow,  when  I  met  some  children. 

"Where  are  you  going? "  I  asked. 

"  We  want  to  find  a  four-leaved  clover  and  a  bee- 
tle with  one  eye,"  said  one  of  them :  "  for  if  we  can 
find  them,  we  shall  be  able  to  get  into  the  Great  Pan- 
jandrum's place,  and  there  we  can  learn  whether 
there  is  a  bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow  or 
not." 

Now,  I  was  seized  with  a  great  desire  to  see  the 
illustrious  Panjandrum  for  myself,  and  to  know  what 
he  had  to  say  of  that  wonderful  bag  of  gold  that  was 
to  be  found  at  the  place  where  the  rainbow  touched 
the  ground.  And  so  I  fell  to  work  with  the  happy 
boys  and  girls,  looking  for  a  one-eyed  beetle  and  a 
four-leaved  clover.  The  clover  we  soon  found,  but 
it  was  a  long  time  before  we  got  the  beetle.  At  last 
we  came  to  a  log  on  which  two  of  that  sort  of  beetles 
that    children    call    "pinch-bugs,"    were    fighting. 


26o  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

Whether  they  were  prize-fighters,  engaged  in  a  com- 
bat for  one  thousand  dollars  a  side,  or  whether  they 
were  fighting  a  duel  about  some  affair  of  honor,  I  do 
not  know ;  but  I  did  notice  that  they  fought  most 
brutally,  scratching  away  savagely  on  each  other's 
hard  shells,  without  doing  a  great  deal  of  damage, 
however.  But  one  of  them  had  lost  one  eye  in  the 
fight,  and  so  we  seized  him  and  made  off,  leaving 
the  other  to  snap  his  tongs  together  in  anger  because 
he  had  nobody  to  pinch.  It  must  be  a  dreadful  thing 
to  want  to  hurt  somebody  and  have  nobody  to  hurt. 
When  we  had  gone  some  distance,  we  came  to  a 
gate  that  had  a  very  curious  "sign  over  it.  It  read, 
"The  Great  Panjandrum  Himself.''  There  was 
a  Garuly  with  a  club  standing  by  the  gate,  and  a 
Pickaninny,  in  a  blue  coat  with  a  long  tail,  hopping 
around  on  top  of  it.  We  showed  the  one-eyed  bee- 
tle and  the  four-leaved  clover,  and  the  Garuly  imme- 
diately hit  the  gate  a  ringing  blow  with  his  club,  and 
shouted,  "  Beetle !  beetle !  beetle  !  "  in  a  wonderfully 
sharp  and  squeaking  voice,  while  the  Pickaninny 
on  top  jerked  a  little  bell  rope,  and  sung  out,  "Clo- 
ver." Then  we  could  see  through  the  gate  a  Job- 
lily  lifting  his  head  up  out  of  a  pond,  inside  the  en- 
closure. 


The  Great  Panjandrum  Himself.  261 

"  How  many  eyes  ?  "  he  asked. 

"One,"  said  the  Garuly. 

"How  many  leaves? "  he  said,  again. 

"  Four,"  returned  the  Pickaninny. 

"  Then  let  them  in  that  they  may  see  The  Great 
Panjandrum  himself,  and  learn  whether  there  be  a 
bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow."  Saying  this, 
the  Joblily  went  under  the  water  and  the  gate  opened. 

We  passed  three  gates,  that  were  opened  in  the 
same  manner,  and  found  ourselves  in  front  of  a 
queer  old  house,  with  seventy-seven  gables  and  ever 
so  many  doors,  and  over  every  door  was  written, 
"  The  Great  Panjandrum  Himself."  There  was 
a  great  bustle  about  the  place,  dried-up  Garulies  run- 
ning around,  dandy-looking  Pickaninnies  hopping 
about,  and  Joblilies  swimming  in  the  lake.  We  asked 
what  it  all  meant,  and  were  told  that  "  she  was  going 
to  marry  the  barber; "  and  then  they  all  tittered,  and 
we  could  not  for  the  life  of  us  tell  what  it  all  meant. 
When  we  told  a  Garuly  that  we  wanted  to  see  the 
Great  Panjandrum  himself,  and  to  find  out  whether 
there  was  a  bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow, 
he  took  our  one-eyed  beetle,  and  gave  the  four-leaved 
clover  to  a  Pickaninny.  Together  they  took  them 
into  the  house,  and  a  Joblily  came  out  in  a  moment 


262  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

to  tell  us  that  the  Great  Panjandrum  was  having  his 
little  round  button-at-the-top  brushed  up,  and  that  if 
we  chose  we  could  wait  for  him  in  the  museum. 

The  museum  was  a  queer  place.  It  was  just  in- 
side the  seventy-seventh  gable  of  the  house.  There 
was  an  old  Garuly  who  acted  as  showman.  We  first 
stopped  before  a  cage  that  contained  a  crazy  mouse. 
**  This,"  said  the  showman,  "  is  the  mouse  that  ran 
up  the  clock.  Just  as  he  got  up  there,  the  clock 
struck  one,  and  though  the  poor  fellow  ran  back 
again,  he  has  never  been  right  since.  This  long, 
slender  cow,  that  you  see,  has  a  great  taste  for  mu- 
sic. She  is  the  one  that  jumped  over  the  moon 
when  the  cat  played  the  fiddle.  The  cat  has  never 
been  allowed  to  play  since.  This  is  the  little  dog 
that  laughed  on  that  occasion.  He  was  so  much 
amused  that  he  has  never  been  able  to  get  his  face 
straight  since.  In  this  pot  you  see  some  of  the  cold 
plum  porrid'ge,  with  the  eating  of  which  the  man  in 
the  South  burnt  his  mouth.  Here  is  a  portrait  of 
the  man  in  the  moon,  when  he  came  down  too  soon 
to  inquire  the  way  to  Norwich.  In  one  of  the  other 
gables  of  this  house  I  can  show  you  Mother  Goose's 
cap  frill.  And  here  is  the  arrow  with  which  Cock 
Robin  was  cruelly  murdered  by  the  sparrow.     This 


The  Great  Panjandrum  Hhnself,  263 

is  the  original  and  genuine  arrow  ;  all  others  are 
humbugs.  This  is  the  bone  that  Mother  Hubbard 
went  to  look  for,  but  failed  to  find.  Here  are  the 
skates  on  which  the 

*'  Three  boys  went  a  skating 
All  on  a  summer's  day, 
They  all  fell  in, 

And  the  rest  ran  away." 

and  here  is  the  skin  of  the  wolf  that  Little  Red 
Ridinghood  met  in  the  woods," 

I  was  just  going  to  inquire  of  him  which  was  the 
true  version  of  that  story,  whether  the  wolf  really 
ate  Little  Red  Ridinghood  up,  or  whether  she  ate 
the  wolf ;  but  before  I  got  a  chance,  a  Joblily  came 
in  to  say  that  the  Great  Panjandrum  himself  was 
coming,  and  soon  the  queerest  little,  old,  round,  fat 
man  came  in,  puffing  like  a  porpoise,  and  rolling 
from  side  to  side  as  he  walked.  His  hair  looked 
like  sea  grass,  and  was  partly  covered  by  a  queer 
concern,  nothing  less  than  the  celebrated  "  little 
round  button-at-the-top." 

"  And  so  you  want  to  see  whether  there  is  really 
a  bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  do  you  1 
Well,  I'll  show  you,  though  I  haven't  much  time,  for 


264  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

he  died  last  week,  and  she  very  imprudently  intends 
to  marry  the  barber." 

This  is  what  the  Panjandrum  said,  and  we  never 
could  tell  who  "  she  "  was,  nor,  indeed,  whom  he 
meant  by  the  barber. 

"Pickaninnies,  bring  out  the  wonderful  Panto- 
scopticon,  and  let  them  see."  - 

The  wonderful  Pantoscopticon  was  brought  out, 
and  we  were  allowed  to  look  in  it. 

THE    FIRST    RAINBOW. 

I  looked  into  one  of  the  "  peep  holes,"  and  I  seemed 
to  see  a  rainbow  a  long  way  off.  Over  the  top  of  it 
was  written  "  Wealth."  I  saw  a  boy  running  after  it. 
I  looked,  and  the  picture,  which  was  a  dissolving 
view,  faded  away,  and  there  came  another,  which 
shgwed  me  an  old  man,  sick  with  the  world,  just  ready 
to  die,  and  hating  the  gold  he  had  gathered.  And  I 
saw  then  that  the  gold  he  had  gathered  was  not  gold 
to  him. 

THE   SECOND    RAINBOW. 

In  the  next  place,  I  saw  another  rainbow.  Over 
the  top  was  written,  "  Eat  and  be  merry."  I  saw  rud- 
dy-faced children  seeking  the  gold  at  the  end  of  it. 


The  Great  Panjandrwn  Himself,  265 

Then  the  rainbow  faded  away,  and  I  saw  the  same 
children,  with  faltering  steps  and  sunken  eyes,  beaten 
upon  by  the  pitiless  storm,  and  finally  swept  away  by 
^ flood;  and  I  knew  there  was  no  gold  at  the  end  of 
that  rainbow. 

THE   THIRD   RAINBOW. 

Under  the  third  rainbow  I  saw  a  beggar.  Over 
the  top  of  the  arch  was  written,  "  Trust  God  and  do 
good.''  The  beggar  was  very  poor  and  very  sick,  but 
his  eyes  were  always  fixed  upon  the  bow,  which  was 
exceedingly  beautiful,  and  which  seemed  to  him  a 
bow  of  promise  indeed.  Out  of  the  rainbow,  at  last, 
came  three-score  white-winged  beings,  and  caught 
up  the  beggar  and  bore  him  to  Paradise,  and  we  saw 
then  that  there  was  gold  at  the  end  of  that  rainbow. 

The  Great  Panjandrum  himself,  with  his  little 
round  button-at-the-top,  was  just  about  to  show  us  a 
fourth  view  in  the  wonderful  Pantoscopticon,  when 
a  Garuly  came  in  to  say  that  the  she-bear  had  brought 
the  soap,  and  that  the  barber  was  waiting.  The 
Great  Panjandrum,  in  a  great  state  of  excitement, 
hurried  away  from  us,  and  we,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  do,  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Just  then  a  Job- 
lily  went  by  with  a  cabbage  leaf. 


266  The  Chicken  Little  Stories, 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asked  one  of  the  little  girls  of  our 
party. 

"A  cabbage  leaf  to  make  an  apple  pie,"  he  replied, 
without  looking  around. 

.  Presently  a  Pickaninny  came  hurrying  by  with  a 
small  keg  in  his  hands. 

"What  is  that?  "  asked  the  same  curious  little  girl. 

"  Gunpowder  for  the  heels  of  their  boots,"  he  an  • 
swered,  and  went  on. 

And  a  spark  of  fire  from  one  of  the  seventy-seven 
chimneys  fell  into  the  keg,  and  there  was  a  frightful 
explosion,  blowing  up  the  house  and  scattering  the 
museum ;  and  the  last  I  saw  was  the  barber  and  the 
great  she-bear  falling  into  the  lake. 

"  What  made  'em  burst  up  so  bad.^  "  said  the  Small 
Chicken. 

*' Gunpowder,  of  course,"  said  Fairy. 


4^^i^^^^ 


"CHICKEN    LIITLE'' 


Modern  Fables. 


I. , 

FLAT  TAIL,   THE  BEAVER. 

A  COLONY  of  beavers  selected  a  beautiful  spot 
on  a  clear  stream,  called  Silver  Creek,  to 
build  themselves  a  habitation.  Without  waiting  for 
any  orders,  and  without  any  wrangling  about  whose 
place  was  the  best,  they  gnawed  down  some  young 
trees  and  laid  the  foundation  for  a  dam.  With  that 
skill  for  which  they  are  so  remarkable,  they  built  it 
so  that  it  would  protect  them  from  cold,  from  water, 
and  from  their  foes.  When  it  was  completed,  they 
were  delighted  with  it,  and  paddled  round  joyously 
in  the  pond  above,  expressing  their  pleasure  to  each 
other  in  true  beaver  style. 

In  this  colony  there  was  one  young  beaver,  by  the 
name  of  Flat  Tail.  His  father,  whose  name  was  Mud 
Dauber,  was  a  celebrated  beaver,  who,  having  very 
superior  teeth,  could  gnaw  through  trees  with  great 
rapidity.    Old  Mud  Dauber  had  distinguished  himself 


270  Modern  Fables, 

chiefly,  however,  by  saving  the  dam  on  three  separate 
occasions  in  time  of  flood.  He  had  done  this  by  his 
courage  and  prudence,  always  beginning  to  work  as 
soon  as  he  saw  the  danger  coming,  without  waiting  till 
the  damage  had  become  too  great  to  repair. 

But  his  son,  this  young  fellow  Flat  Tail,  was  a 
sorry  fellow.  As  long  as  old  Mud  Dauber  lived,  he 
did  pretty  well,  but  as  soon  as  his  father  died  Fiat 
Tail  set  up  for  somebody  great.  Whenever  any  one 
questioned  his  pretensions,  he  always  replied : 

"  I  am  Mud  Dauber's  son.  I  belong  to  the  best 
blood  in  the  colony." 

He  utterly  refused  to  gnaw  or  build.  He  was 
meant  for  something  better,  he  said. 

And  so  one  day  in  autumn,  when  the  beavers  were 
going  out  in  search  of  food  for  winter  use,  as  Flat 
Tail  was  good  for  nothing  else,  they  set  him  to  mind 
the  dam.  After  they  had  started.  Flat  Tail's  uncle, 
old  Mr.  Webfoot,  turned  back  and  told  his  nephew 
to  be  very  watchful,  as  there  had  been  a  great  rain 
on  the  head  waters  of  Silver  Creek,  and  he  was  afraid 
there  would  be  a  flood. 

"  Be  very  careful,"  said  Webfoot,  '*  about  the  snlall 
leaks." 

"  Fshaw,"  said  Flat  Tail,  '*  who  are  you  talking  to? 


Flat  Tail,  the  Beaver,  271 

I  am  Mud  Dauber's  son,  and  do  you  think  I  need 
your  advice  ?  " 

After  they  had  gone  the  stream  began  to  rise. 
Little  sticks  and  leaves  were  eddying  round  in  the 
pool  above.  Soon  the  water  came  up  fast/ to  the 
great  delight  of  the  conceited  young  beaver,  who  was 
pleased  with  the  opportunity  to  show  the  rest  what 
kind  of  stuff  he  was  made  of.  And  though  he  dis- 
liked work,  he  now  began  to  strengthen  the  dam  in 
the  middle  where  the  water  looked  the  most  threaten- 
ing. But  just  at  this  point  the  dam  was  the  strongest, 
and,  in  fact,  the  least  in  danger.  Near  the  shore 
there  was  a  place  where  the  water  was  already  finding 
its  way  through.  A  friendly  kingfisher  who  sat  on  a 
neighboring  tree  warned  him  that  the  water  was  com- 
ing through,  but' always  too  conceited  to  accept  of 
counsel,  he  answered: 

"  Oh,  that's  only  a  small  leak,  and  near  the  shore. 
What  does  a  kingfisher  know  about  a  beaver  dam, 
anyway !  You  needn't  advise  me !  I  am  the  great 
Mud  Dauber's  son.  I  shall  fight  the  stream  bravely, 
right  here  in  the  worst  of  the  flood." 

But  Flat  Tail  soon  found  that  the  water  in  the 
pond  was  falling.  Looking  round  for  the  cause,  he 
saw  that  the  small  leak  had  broken  away  a  large  por- 


272  Modern  Fables. 

tion  of  the  dam,  and  that  the  torrent  was  rushing 
through  it  wildly.  Poor  Flat  Tail  now  worked  like 
a  hero,  throwing  himself  wildly  into  the  water  only 
to  be  carried  away  below  and  forced  to  walk  up  again 
on  the  shore.  His  efforts  were  of  no  avail,  and  had 
not  the  rest  of  the  Silver  Creek  beaver  family  come 
along  at  that  time,  their  home  and  their  winter's  stock 
of  provisions  would  alike  have  been  destroyed.  Next 
day  there  was  much  beaver  laughter  over  Flat  TaiPs 
repairs  on  the  strong  part  of  the  dam,  and  the  name 
that  before  had  been  a  credit  to  him  was  turned  into 
a  reproach,  for  from  that  day  the  beavers  called  him, 
in  derision,  "  Mud  Dauber's  son,  the  best  blood  in 
the  colony." 

Don't  neglect  a  danger  because  it  is  small ;  don't 
boast  of  what  your  father  did ;  and  don't  be  too  con- 
ceited to  receive  good  advice. 


II. 

THE  mocking-bird's  SINGING   SCHOOL. 

A  LADY  brought  a  mocking-bird  from  New 
Orleans  to  her  home  in  the  north.  At  first 
all  the  birds  in  the  neighborhood  looked  upon  it 
with  contempt.  The  chill,  northern  air  made  the 
poor  bird  homesick,  and  for  a  few  days  he  declined 
to  sing  for  anybody. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare,"  screamed  out  Miss  Guinea- 
fowl,  "to  see  the  care  our  mistress  takes  of  that 
homely  bird.  It  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  sing  a  note. 
I  can  make  more  music  than  that  myself.  Indeed,  my 
voice  is  quite  operatic.  Pot-rack !  Pot-rack  !  Pot- 
rack  1 "  and  the  empty-headed  Miss  Guinea-fowl  near- 
ly cracked  her  own  throat,  and  the  ears  of  everybody 
else,  with  her  screams.  And  the  great  vain  peacock 
spread  his  sparkling  tail-feathers  in  the  sun,  and 
looked  with  annihilating  scorn  on  the  dull  plumage 
of  the  poor  mocking-bird.  "  Daddy-longlegs,''  the 
Shanghai  rooster,  crowed  louder  than  ever,  with  one 


274  Modern  Fables, 

eye  on  the  poor,  jaded  bird,  and  said  :  "What  a  con- 
temptible' little  thing  you  are,  to  be  sure !  "  Gander 
White,  Esq.,  the  portly  barn-yard  alderman,  hissed  at 
him,  and  even  Duck  Waddler,  the  tad-pole  catcher, 
called  him  a  quack. 

But  wise  old  Dr.  Parrot,  in  the  next  cage,  said : 
"  Wait  and  see.  There's  more  under  a  brown  coat 
than  some  people  think." 

There  came  a  day  at  last  when  the  sun  shone  out 
warm.  Daddy  Longlegs  crowed  hoarsely  his  de- 
light, the  peacock  tried  his  musical  powers  by 
shouting  Ne-onk !  Ne-onk !  and  Duck  Waddler 
quacked  away  more  ridiculously  than  ever.  Just 
then  the  mocking-bird  ruffled  his  brown  neck- 
feathers  and  began  to  sing.  All  the  melody  of  all 
the  song-birds  of  the  South  seemed  to  be  bottled  up 
in  that  one  little  bosom.  Even  Miss  Guinea-fowl 
had  sense  enough  to  stop  her  hideous  operatic  "  pot- 
rack,"  to  listen  to  the  wonderful  sweetness  of  the 
stranger's  song.  Becoming  cheered  with  his  own 
singing,  the  bird  began  to  mimic  the  hoarse  crowing 
with  which  Daddy  Longlegs  wakened  him  in  the 
morning.  This  set  the  barn-yard  in  a  roar,  and  the 
peacock  shouted  his  applause  in  a  loud  "  Ne-onk !  " 
Alas!  for  him,  the  mocking-bird  mimicked  his  hide- 


The  Mocking-bird s  Singing  School.  275 

ous  cry,  then  quacked  like  the  duck,  and  even  Miss 
Guinea-fowl  found  that  be  could  pot-rack  better  than 
she  could. 

The  Shanghai  remarked  to  the  peacock,  that  this 
young  Louisianian  was  a  remarkable  acquisition  to 
the  community ;  Gander  White  thought  he  ought  to 
be  elected  to  the  city  council,  and  Miss  Guinea-fowl 
remarked  that  she  had  always  thought  there  was 
something  in  the  young  man.  Dr.  Parrot  laughed 
quietly  at  this  last  remark. 

The  very  next  day  the  mocking-bird  was  asked  to 
take  up  a  singing-school.  The  whole  barn-yard  was 
in  the  notion  of  improving  the  popular  capacity  to 
sing.  And  Daddy  Longlegs  came  near  breaking  his 
neck  in  his  hurry  to  get  up  on  a  barrel-head  to  ad- 
vocate a  measure  that  he  saw  was  likely  to  be  popu 
lar. 

But  it  did  not  come  to  any  thing.  The  only  song 
that  the  rooster  could  ever  sing  was  the  one  in 
Mother  Goose,  about  the  dame  losing  her  shoe  and 
the  master  his  fiddle-stick,  at  which  Prof.  Mocking 
Bird  couldn't  help  smiling.  Mr.  Peacock,  the  gen- 
tleman of  leisure,  could  do  nothing  more  than  his 
frightful  Ne-onk !  which  made  everybody  shiver 
more  than  a  saw-file  would.     Gander  White  said  he 


276  Modern  Fables, 

himself  had  a  good  ear  for  music,  but  a  poor  voice, 
while  the  Hon.  Turkey  Pompous  said  he  had  a  fine 

'  bass  voice,  but  no  ear  for  tune.  Dr.  Parrot  was 
heard  to  say  "  Humbug  !  *'  when  the  whole  company 
turned  to  him  for  an  explanation.  He  was  at  that 
moment  taking  his  morning  gymnastic  exercise,  by 
swinging  himself  from  perch  to  perch,  holding  on 
by  his  beak.  When  he  got  through,  he  straightened 
up  and  said  : 

"  In  the  first  place,  you  all  made  sport  of  a  stran- 
ger about  whom  you  knew  nothing.  I  spent  many 
years  of  my  life  with  a  learned  doctor  of  divinity, 
and  I  often  heard  him  speak  severely  of  the  sin  of 
rash  judgments.  But  when  you  found  that  our  new 
friend  could  sing,  you  all  desired  to  sing  like  hini. 
Now,  God  made  him  to  sing,  and  each  of  the  rest  of 
us  to  do  something  else.  You,  Mr.  Gander  White, 
are  good  to  make  feather  beds  and  pillows ;  Hon. 
Turkey  Pompous  is  good  for  the  next  Thanksgiving 
day  j  and  you,  Mr.  Peacock  Strutwell,  are  good  for 

'  nothing  but  to  grow  tail-feathers  to  make  fly-brushes 
of.  But  we  all  have  our  use.  If  we  will  all  do  our 
best  to  be  as  useful  as  we  can  in  our  own  proper 
sphere,  we  will  do  better.  There  is  our  neighbor. 
Miss  Sophie  Jones,  who  has  wasted  two  hours  a  day 


The  Mocking-bird's  Singing  School.  277 

for  the  last  ten  years,  trying  to  learn  music,  when 
God  did  not  give  her  musical  talent,  while  Peter 
Thompson,  across  the  street,  means  to  starve  to 
death,  trying  to  be  a  lawyer,  without  any  talent  for 
it.     Let  us  keep  in  our  own  proper  spheres/* 

The  company  hoped  he  would  say  more,  but  Dr. 
Parrot  here  began  to  exercise  again,  in  order  to 
keep  his  digestion  good,  and  the  company  dispersed. 


III. 

THE  BOB-O-LINK  AND  THE  OWL. 

HAVING  eaten  his  breakfast  of  beech-nuts,  a 
bobolink  thought  he  would  show  himself 
neighborly  j  so  he  hopped  over  to  an  old  gloomy- 
oak  tree,  where  there  sat  a  hooting  owl,  and  after 
bowing  his  head  gracefully,  and  waving  his  tail  in 
the  most  friendly  manner,  he  began  chirruping 
cheerily,  somewhat  in  this  fashion  : 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Owl !  what  a  fine,  bright 
morning  we  have." 

"Fine!"  groaned  the  owl!  "fine,  indeed!  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  call  it  fine  with  that  fierce 
sun  glaring  in  one's  eyes." 

The  bob-o-link  was  quite  disconcerted  by  this 
outburst,  but  after  jumping  about  nervously  from 
twig  to  twig  for  a  little  while,  he  began  again  : 

"  What  a  beautiful  meadow  that  is  which  you  can 
see   from   your  south   window !       How   sweet   the 


The  Bob-o-llnk  and  the  Owl.  279 

flowers  look  !  Really  you  have  a  pleasant  view,  if 
your  house  is  a  little  gloomy.'* 

"  Beautiful !  did  you  say  ?  Pleasant !  What  sort 
of  taste  you  must  have  !  I  haven't  been  able  to  look 
out  of  that  window  since  May.  The  color  of  the 
grass  is  too  bright,  and  the  flowers  are  very  painful. 
I  don't  mind  that  view  so  much  in  November,  but 
this  morning  I  must  find  a  shadier  place,  where  the 
light  won't  disturb  my  morning  nap." 

And  so,  with  a  complaining  "  Hoo  !  Hoo  !  Hoo- 
ah ! "  he  flapped  his  melancholy  wings  and  flitted 
away  into  the  depths  of  a  swamp. 

And  a  waggish  old  squirrel,  who  had  heard  the 
conversation,  asked  the  bob-o-link  how  he  could  ex- 
pect any  one  to  like  beautiful  things  who  looked  out 
of  such  great  staring  eyes. 

The  pleasantness  of  our  surroundings  depends 
far  more  upon  the  eyes  we  see  with,  than  upon  the 
objects  about  us.  A  cheerful  heart  makes  a  pleas- 
ant life. 

THE   END. 


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